You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy
The Fighter Jet.
It’s sleek like a missile.
It cuts through the wind like a torpedo slicing through water.
This metallic white monster is lightning fast like a cheetah, sprinting through the grass in Africa.
The tires are fat and soft and grip the asphalt like mountain rubberized climbing spikes digging into a rock cliff.
Tap the accelerator and the engine roars like a tiger, growling, announcing its legendary prowess. Upshifting is like riding a tornado. Downshifting is an exercise in vector displacement.
The exhaust manifold is a marching band made up of nothing but drums banging angrily, announcing this demon’s presence in the fast lane.
The speedometer tops out at 190 mph. Does one even dare?
The tachometer doesn’t even yawn until 5,000 RPM’s, when most engines would explode. Red line is 7,000 spine tingling Revolutions Per Minute.
When placed in the dynamic mode, The Fighter Jet transforms from soothing blue, to nuclear red. The cockpit glows like fire in a technologically advanced cathedral. Sitting behind the steering wheel is like sitting at the controls of a nuclear submarine preparing to release an exponential payload of power.
The neon glow on the dash board is foreboding, alluring like the sign hanging over a brothel in Amsterdam. The pulsing red instrumentation is the color of the beast, surly and venomous like the rolling serpent she is.
The Fighter Jet’s leather seats caress you, harnessing you while you push the limits of lateral acceleration. The ergonomically designed restraints hold you still while the G forces tear at your insides.
6 cylinders. 380 HP. Twin Superchargers. 0-60 in 4.8 seconds.
0-190 mph? Don’t even try it.
To step on the accelerator is to step on freedom. It is a slingshot of unequivocal power and precision. It is a gnarly tubular fall over the crest of a mighty wave. The down hill rush is a toboggan run down an icy tube of speed.
I watched a TESLA accelerate the other day. It shot forward in a hushed so what. Watching this electric sports car accelerate had all the excitement of watching a light bulb turn on. Nice battery, I thought to myself.
In comparison, the Fighter Jet is a rocket sled of luxurious horsepower. It tracks down the highway, pulsing, ready to blow past lesser automobiles, it’s rear spoiler tilted up like a sign of automotive disdain.
It is a bullet, exploding from the chamber, reaching maximum speed in the blink of an eye.
The British Racing Edition is punctilious, each nuance carefully crafted like a brush stroke on the Mona Lisa. The chrome grill plates sparkle against the white metal, allowing a peek at the twin superchargers hiding under the aerodynamic hood. The Jaguar symbol emblazoned on the floor mats is bold and rich. The hand stitched leather interior that wraps the cockpit like a Georgio Armani fitted sport coat adds to the luxuriousness of this rolling beast.
Driving the Fighter Jet is more than physical, it is emotional. It’s a dynamic of prestige and power. It’s a confluence of smooth and refined coupled with raw unadulterated power.
The fighter Jet is the culmination of sacrifice and desire. It is a wish granted without rubbing Aladdin’s Lamp.
0-60 is a realization that the time for living is upon you.
Life it Up!
The Fighter Jet.
Mechanized sophistication that roars like a fuel injected orchestra.