Power & Beauty

A couple weeks ago, C.W. posted this pic:

It is, of course, one of the earlier offerings from the once-defunct and since-resurrected Wiesmann company, and as lovely as that picture is, it doesn’t do the car justice.  Here are a couple more:

Here’s the interior:

From Wikipedia:

Wiesmann used BMW six-cylinder engines to power its MF models, until the introduction in 2003 of the GT MF4, which used BMW’s 4.8-litre V8, and the MF 5, which used the M5’s 5.0-litre V10.

The cars are all, of course, hand-built and don’t ask about the price.  (Okay, okay:  think new Aston Martin DB11 price for a secondhand Wiesmann MF 5.)

Lottery payout permitting, the MF4 would be on my shortlist of “Outrageously-Overpriced Self-Indulgent Midlife Crisis Cars”:

Come to think of it, it might well be the only car on that list.

Don’t ask me to pick between the Roadster (ragtop) or GT (roof).  Nor between the tan or white leather interior.  As for automatic- vs. manual transmission… that, I could decide.

Mourning The Queen

It bothers me that raddled old Commies like Nancy Pelosi and Dianne Feinstein can live to a ripe [sic]  old age, but wonderful women like Sabine Schmitz get snatched away from us far too early.

“Sabine who?”  you ask.

There was no one like Sabine Schmitz, the Queen of the Nurburgring, and I’m not sure there’ll ever be anyone quite like her.

Whenever she was due to appear on the old Top Gear show, I made sure never to miss it, because she was the real deal:  taunting, teasing, mocking, shouting, screaming and in general, making utter fools of all the Top Gear hosts — especially Clarkson — and then backing it up with matchless displays of driving skill around one of the world’s deadliest racing circuits.

Here’s a tribute to Sabine from, well, everyone who ever knew her professionally.  And here’s Part 1 and Part 2 of her audacious challenge:  that she could drive around the Ring faster in a Ford Transit van than Jeremy Clarkson had done in a Jaguar.

I loved loved LOVED Sabine Schmitz, and I am going to miss her terribly.

Might Get Me One

Seen via Insty:

That would be what we call the Tacoma, Over Here:

Just wondering whether the roof struts are strong enough to handle the mount… not that I’m thinking of doing anything revolutionary, of course.

Sadly, New Wife is not of the Pickup Truck Persuasion, and point-blank refuses to let me get one when it comes time to trade in the Tiguan.

Too bad;  I rather fancied this version:


From an earlier post:  “And in other news:  normal blogging service should resume tomorrow with the usual mixture of guns,  rants, booze, invective and boobs.”

I forgot cars.

This one appeared at C.W.’s place, and for its full story follow the link.

As Longtime Readers know, I am generally leery of American automotive styling, especially during the decades following WWII.  This Caddy, however, looks absolutely spectacular, in that “American Excess” fashion.  The purple slash on the sides is the only thing which makes me a tad nauseated — white would have been better, to give that “tuxedo” look — but the overall shape of the car is quite lovely.

Even New Wife, who is still more conservative than I in these matters, nodded with approval.

Investment Grade

Here are ten cars which fetched ridiculous prices at auction last year — most of which are unlikely ever to leave the garage for longer than a few minutes because of their now-rarified [sic]  prices.

Ignoring the prices, though, I have to say that I like most of them — we all know of my fondness for the Dino 246 GT, especially — but the Merc 300 SL and Porsche 928 are also quite toothsome.

The sky-high prices, of course, are largely owing to the low mileage of each car — the Dino was calculated to have done an average of 289 miles per annum over the past 48 years — which, as I said earlier is why they’ll all be wrapped in silk and stored in a climate-controlled room somewhere.

Feel free to offer up your top 3 picks of the ten listed — ignoring the silly auction prices thereof, of course — in Comments.


Blogging has always been fun.  It’s fairly easy for me to write about, well, anything, and when all else fails, there’s always this:


…or this:

In these times, however — the times that try men’s souls (to coin a phrase) — there seems little incentive to pass comment about what just happened to us, and what is likely to happen to us.  All I feel is sullen rage, resentment and a burning desire to bite the head off a rattlesnake.

I wish sometimes that I could be a Lefty, and take to the streets, burn shit down and in general act like a 10-year-old child;  but I can’t do that.  The very thought of causing destruction to innocent people’s property, or beating people up in the streets, or doing any of that crap that the Left are so fond of doing when they feel aggrieved — well, I’m not going to do any of it.  Futile gestures are not my thing.

But at the same time, I feel like I’m living in some kind of hellish limbo.  I know, this is no doubt how the Left felt after Hillary Clinton lost;  but the difference is that while Trump was never going to put homosexuals into concentration camps, or overturn Roe v. Wade, or start deporting people en masse, there is every reason to suspect that the new crop of Lefties really are going to raise our taxes, try to confiscate our guns, muzzle our voices and fuck up our economy under the guise of “saving the planet” or some such bullshit.

So please forgive me if over the next few days or so the quality of this blog seems to head downhill, wherein I seem to be just mailing it in instead of giving it the gas.

Normal service will resume shortly, probably with even more invective and loathing than before.  Right now, however, I just feel like tying George Soros to a chair and beating him to death with a baseball bat.

And I may just reconfigure this blog somewhat, with a new, less self-pitying name.  Watch this space, and content yourself with this thought: