Whippin' ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ in the ♥♥♥♥♥♥' parking lot of a destitute gas station, getting mauled by some feral rabbit, driving to some beached up oil tanker in the middle of the desert (How the ♥♥♥♥ did this bastard get out here) just to find a barrel filled to the brim with some dude's piss, hanging fine Italian sausages from every conceivable surface of my car's interior, this game is the ♥♥♥♥♥♥' life, man. I can drop my logs (dookie, poopoo, ♥♥♥♥, you know what I mean) while driving my souped-up Plymouth Fury, then I grab 'em with my bare hands and fling 'em out the car. If someone was driving behind me, which would be unlikely given the fact that every other dude is dead (check the lore, man), they'd get a windshield full of doodoo feces, probably would do that thing from Spongebob where that lil' yellow dude started whipping every which way when he got some trash in his face, then they'd flip over their Volkswagen Golf beater, doing a couple somersaults before they explode into a fiery ball. That'd be sick, I reckon. I like staring longingly at my self in the various rear view mirrors that I've nailed to my car's hood. I ♥♥♥♥♥♥' love this game, ♥♥♥♥♥♥' TIGHT.