Drag racing is the shit. Because on Saturday night, there's nothing better to do than just that. Goodbye, fun with friends, trips downtown, or just hanging out at home relaxing. Hello, asphalt racing ground with 35-40 mile per hour speed limits! The winner of tonight's questionably legit drag race: a souped-up silver Ford Mustang. Because how can you compete with a car that's got an engine the size of which is nearly as large as modern sedans. I knew when it pulled around me to speed up to beat me to the red light ahead, that I wasn't dealing with just any drag racer. Mere blocks away from the usual racing zone, I knew that this car played to win.

And when I saw it take on that fancy Mercury Villager, I knew the driver meant business. As the opposing light turned yellow, the sound of a revving engine could be heard coming from the Stang. As soon as our light turned green, the sound of squealing tires broke the silence of this normally calm residential street.

And that charming little mini van gave that 220-horse-power (or however much horse power is in there) Mustang a run for its money. So much so, that the Mustang felt that, in order to retain what little "self-respect" it then had, it was necessary to keep speeding along the street. Where we caught up with it at the next red light down the road. And I'm pretty sure I heard Jan and Dean blasting on their radio. I didn't get to see what the driver looked like, but it could well have been a certain "little old lady."