Nissan Unveils Electric Birth Control Machine

: The Handjobmobile

In an effort to symbolically castrate its potential customers, the Nissan Corporation proudly unveiled its latest auto abortion: “The Leaf”, an electric turd valued at $10,000 US dollars.

So let’s get this straight. For $10,000, I can tool around in a baby blue shitbox that I have to PLUG IN? A glorified matchbox car that won’t even move anywhere unless I remember to charge the battery overnight, as it sits in my garage like a flaccid chode waiting for me to swallow my little blue boner pill? Fantastic.

In what retarded world is this considered progress? We as a Nation sit on our ass finding an alternative to gasoline, until the government seizes control of the floundering auto industry and forces emission standards down our throats, and this is what we’re left with? A Leaf? A fucking Leaf?!

We took our foot off the gas in World War 2, letting Japan sustain life, for this? A Leaf? A fucking LEAF?! The Japanese love their kinky stuff. So for $10,000, I’d rather they take a giant dump on our collective chests, then force this four-wheeled, Freedom-hating tampon on our once proud people.

The saddest part is, there are enough weepy, misguided fucksticks in this country, that The Leaf could actually take off when it hits the global market in 2012. I can see them all now…

“No horsepower for me, thanks. I’M AN ENVIRONMENTALIST! I drive a LEAF! It’s so convenient to drive it to my menial job going door-to-door soliciting losers to sign petitions for universal health care! The cup holder really cradles my green tea! Oh, and the acoustics! My post-modern folk music totally resonates from the tiny, gutless speakers! I can’t wait to obnoxiously drape the entire rump of my foreign electric car in obscure band names, multiple bumper stickers with slightly different logos that broadcast essentially the same naive thirst for abstract concepts like “HOPE!”, and scores of in-your-face, anti-establishment stickers designed to show how rebellious and totally anti-establishment I am, even though my ideals are now actually in line with the establishment! I’m saving the environment, baby! I’m Driving a LEAF! Do you think it has enough trunk space for my Vespa?”

It’s not like I’m that against electric cars. I’m just against having things like emission standards, political correctness, and ugly fucking cars disguised as “progress”, forced on me. I would be all for electric cars, if they remotely resembled their electric counterparts in “Back to the Future, Part 2″. Bonus points if they could also fly, or travel through time. I’d even settle for electric cars that look like a car a real human being would buy, not some bleeding heart whose primary concern in life is his carbon footprint. Like an electric version of a muscle car, for example. Or an electric minivan, because hey, who gives a fuck about aesthetics, if you’re already driving a minivan. Your manhood has long since been sacrificed. Might as well save some coin.

And speaking of manhood loss, Nissan is ignoring one key component of buying a car? WHO THE FUCK COULD GET LAID DRIVING A LEAF?!!!

Jesus H. Christ, look at that thing. It makes the PT Cruiser look like a pussy magnet.

What self-respecting girl would fornicate with a guy driving a Nissan Leaf?

Imagine this Doomsday scenario. You’re a girl who’s gotten herself into the ultimate sticky situation. You’ve given one of these environmentlist, hipster tools 3 dates, because you’re either desperate, or on a long dry spell (hey, women have slumpbusters too!), and on this 3rd date, he’s really gone all out. He bought a new pairy of skinny jeans to go with his favorite vintage sweater. He spent $40 on two overpriced tickets to a crappy avante-garde play at a dilapitdated theatre in a run-down-slash-up-and-coming section of the city that is half crack addict, half hipster douchebag. Then he dipped back into the hemp money clip (leather wallets = murder, but mostly they won’t fit in the tiny pockets on his skinny jeans), to buy you both falafel sandwiches, because God forbid you eat a regular sandwich, or go out with guy who actually knows how to use his penis. And now, he is dropping you off, as his favorite “ultra-mellow” folk singer croons about the evils of colonialism. You ask if it is Jack Johnson singing. He holds back his momentary rage over you thinking he would listen to anything that mainstream, even though the no-talent ass clown whose CD he bought from a non-chain, non-dairy coffee shop sounds the exact fucking same as Jack Johnson. He looks at you like he wants you to invite him up to your apartment. But you have roommates, and would be too embarrassed to be seen with this guy by people you actually know. And even if you didn’t have roommates, there are at least other people in your building. And the next time you went down to do laundry, one of them might be folding their clothes next to you and think, “oh, that’s the girl in 34B. The one that fucks the guy who drives a Nissan Leaf”. And who wants that?

So you’ve ruled out taking him up to your place for a Third Date Thank You Fuck. What does that leave for a young single girl in a dating slump? Blowjob? Really? Do you want to be forever known as the girl who gave this poseur a pecker smooch from the passenger seat of his Nissan Leaf? Do you want to be a Leafblower?! I don’t think so. Which leaves two options. Thoughtless Handjob with opposite hand while sending text messages with your strong hand, or tell this loser what he really needs to hear: “If you want to get anywhere near a hoo-ha again, don’t drive a Leaf. Ever. ”

I’d go with Option 2, in her shoes. Let this Ozone-loving schmuck end his night as he always does: tearfully masturbating with patchouli oil, because vaseline is petroleum-based, and hitherto associated with the “corrupt, gas-guzzling, war-mongering” Bush administration. So he’d rather have his cock perpetually smell like a homeless Rastafarian’s hair.

Yeah, have fun reaching that market segment, Nissan. In the meantime, I’ll be eating red meat like a god damn dinosaur and cruising along in my dented GM relic from an America that once existed, while I hold out for an electric flying time machine. So remember, kids. As always, listen to your genitals. Don’t buy a Leaf.

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