The Follow Me Don Chronicles #1 - Humble Beginnings

I have recently set a goal in my life. This goal is one I hope to accomplish sooner rather than later, but I will not stop until that goal is accomplished. I have recently set a goal to get the 45th President of the United States, Commander in Chief of the United States Armed Forces, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains, ya boy Donald J. Trump to follow me back on Twitter. This is the Follow Me Don Chronicles.

It started simply enough: I wanted Post Malone, an accomplished musical artist and memelord to follow me on Twitter. My initial idea was to ask someone larger to follow me, like DJ Trump himself, then offer it to Post. I figured Mr. Malone would be jealous and follow me back. The idea failed, and to this day my follower list has not been graced by the likes of Post Malone. 

After 24 hours, upon coming to terms with the fact that Post would not follow me back but instead ignore me like a soccer mom at a beggar's intersection, I decided to loft my goal. Instead of a memelord, I'd get the world's most powerful person to follow me back.

It's all about street cred. A person's worth is determined by their Twitter followers. I tried the same tweet again, this time replying to one of his tweets. Maybe a direct reply would catch his attention. But alas, the Trumpmeister didn't listen. On the bright side, four people liked it, and that's just great. You guys are great. Thanks, guys. I appreciate you.

The next two were still simple. A simple plea for recognition. I threw in a pinch of human interest to appeal to his soft interior lurking beneath an excess of orange flesh. My premise: I'm a sad, lonely man who just wants friends. The reality of the claim helped my story, too. But that didn't sway him either. Donald J. Trump was still not following me.

I grew angry with Don. I wanted a follow back. I lashed out at sweet Donnie. However, I stand by my statement. Political beliefs aside, his Twitter message is unclear and muddled with all the stagnant bacteria festering behind his largemouth bass lips, much like chew spit. His thoughts flow effortlessly from his noggin onto Twitter like musical notation from a prodigious composer tapping the well of inspiration. But they shouldn't. Regardless, DJT still didn't follow me. I pressed on, ever the wiser, ever the resilient.

Donald, the bill can wait. What could not wait, I'm afraid, were my exams. My finals were imminent, along with my stress. I needed luck, and I needed it from the man with the power to end the world in a fiery hailstorm of nuclear explosion. I figured by now Don and I were on a "cool initials instead of names" basis. He'd be DJ, I'd be KN. Together we'd chill on the stoop and wreck havoc in our neighborhood, all while wearing the flyest kicks and the phattest pants. But distaster struck before the dream became a reality: he didn't follow me back.

Now it was time to play politics; if the language of sympathy didn't jive with him, I'd have to speak a language he understands. Or doesn't understand, depending on which way you lean. Either way, I thought perhaps a nomination would clinch the follow back. There are few people in this elite club. It consists mostly of Fox News reporters who he knows won't make fun of him for his Twitter wordvomits, the White House Twitter, Mikey P. The Gayhater's Dream, the children he remembers exists, his businesses' Twitter accounts, and Vince McMahon, owner of World Wrestling Entertainment. Next to be added to the list: your boy Niles.

Well, chums, he didn't take the bait. Instead, he ignored me like he always does. It's like the tens of thousands of replies he receives to every tweet is too much for him to read or something. Next I wanted him to know I could be trusted. I've never leaked before, and I never will, should J. Trump trust me with his tweets. Maybe Don would even appoint me as the new FBI director? I mean I'm trustworthy enough, nearly as handsome as Comey, and the thought of testifying at a Senate intelligence hearing makes me so sick with anxiety that I would never do anything wrong. I can't even talk in a college class of 30 people, let alone a room full of old people who look at you like you took one too many of their butterscotch candies.

Perhaps the most sacred of days could convince him to follow me back. It was my birthday, and I went out all out with my appeal to his emotions. In this tweet, I was playing the role of myself, but without having received a birthday wish from any of my friends. Also my dog hated me. Nobody can say no to a sad, lonely man on his birthday, abandoned by his friends, loathed by his animal companion. Imagine, if you will, a man, alone, blowing out a single candle on a cupcake, his face dimly lit by flame's soft glow, his dog sitting the corner, glaring angrily at him. The man begins to sob softly. He ponders: how had his life come to this? "If only," he thinks to himself, "the 45th President of the United States followed me on Twitter." 

To be continued, since he has not followed me back yet. Donnie, if you're reading this, follow me back please.

Review #8 - We Need to Talk About Kevin

We Need To Talk About Kevin is a film in which Kevin is never talked about, nor is the fact he needs to be talked about ever talked about. It's also not even a retitle of Home Alone. It’s a film about a woman who accidentally gave birth to the world’s smartest psychopath child. She was a bad parent, and he a bad child, so naturally this leads to him shooting up his school. There are several things I don’t like about this movie. I will thushenceforthyonder discuss what I don’t like. It’s 1:00 AM as I start this and I forgot all the names already. Let’s do this.

Kevin is the dude with the Jaden Smith lips.
Kevin's mom is the guy on top.

            I watched this movie because it was suggested in a Reddit thread entitled something like “[REQUEST] US Netflix’s most unsettling or disconcerting movies”. Now, you know me. I like to be unsettled and have my concert undid. I thought “Hey, I got two hours to procrastinate with! I’ll give it a go!” So I done loaded the Netflix machine up and watched it. Now let me tell you, folks, I was not as disconcerted as I had hoped to be.

            The movie presents the story by cutting periodically between the kid’s childhood, his mother’s life after he killed some people, and the night that he actually killed some people. Maybe it’s because I had just watched Memento the night before (which isn’t about memes or meme-ing into things in any way, much to my disappointment), but I thought that the whole “we’ll show you bits of a complete story from different periods of the story, so you won’t have the complete picture until the end” was lacking. There were large periods of the same timeframe, then suddenly it would jump around again quickly, then another large period of the same timeframe. If you’re going to build suspense through switching between timeframes and hiding something from your audience, do it consistently. Don’t move around when it suits you. It makes it feel less suspenseful and more annoying. Not to mention that this narrative technique is usually used to hide something good from the audience, which they find out at the end and go “Whaaaaaaat!”, but the only reveal in this film is that the kid shot up his school, which you can infer from the first several seconds of the film anyway. There’s a slightly more specific reveal, which was even worse. But that’s not my main problem with the film. I can forgive that.

            The main problem I have with We Need To Talk About Kevin is the fact that the childhood of the future-killer is just… dumb. When he’s born, he won’t stop crying, which makes his mom hate him. Before birthing Rosemary’s baby part deux, she travelled the world and was a free spirit gluten free indigo child or something. APPARENTLY she wasn’t ready to have a kid and give up that lifestyle, because the SECOND he acts like a normal child and cries, she hates him. This happens again and again as he grows up. He does something wrong, she hates him and wishes she could go back to living in France and contributing nothing to society. At one point, she even breaks his arm because he soils himself on purpose. WHAT THE HELL, LADY?

Apparently this is supposed to be justified because he… wait for it… he’s a psychopath that has it out for her and wants to make her life a living hell. He’s doing it all on purpose! Even from the young age of really young, he hates her. He pretends to like her when his dad is around, then acts out against her when it’s just him and mom. This creates friction between the parents, since the dad thinks the mom is making it all up. The kid is just a brilliant mastermind who plots his family’s destruction since the ripe age of -9 months. It’s like this film was originally written as the edgy reboot for Baby Geniuses but the production company decided to change the name at the last second and dumped the responsibility on Ted, the brand new intern with a fresh degree in art history from WSU. Kevin (I just realized his name is Kevin. The film is named after him. I need to go to bed) is never shown to be an actual human being. You know the kind. The ones who, ya know, go through a believable childhood and have to rely on his parents to not let him accidentally kill himself every 5 seconds. He just exists to hate his mom for not being a good mom when he was an infant or something.

Tomatoes are a symbol throughout this film because they're red. And blood is red.
Or maybe it's about communism. Who knows? Seize the means of produce! ('cause it's a grocery store)

Now this two-dimensional paper cutout of a character decides that the best way to get back at his mom for her existence is to kill his dad, sister, and schoolmates. The big reveal is that he does this not with a gun, but with a bow. A bow might seem like a strange tool to kill people with in this age of rootie-tootie-point-and-shooties, which it is. See, he chooses a bow because his mom read him a Robin Hood book once. That book inspired him to take up archery, and later use those skills to create moderately-educated porcupines in his school gymnasium. Get it? Do ya get it? GET IT? IT’S SYMBOLISM! The bow is just a symbol for how his mom led him to do all this! I solved it! 

 Except the mom wasn’t really all THAT bad. She didn't deserve to have raised a family annihilator and school shooter. I’d hate my kid, too, if he turned out to be the offspring of Albert Einstein and Gary Ridgway. But the amount of hatred she has for him wouldn't produce such awful products. Both the mother and son are just dumb and bad at being people.

The third component of the story (a far too large chunk of it) is the mother’s life after her son did all this nonsense and tomfoolery, but it’s overall uninteresting and unimportant. It’s more of a vehicle to launch the other two components than tell anything new. She repeatedly gets harassed by the local townsfolk for being the mother of a killer, as if that’s reasonable at all. If I were her, I’d just leave town, but what do I know?

Well, folks, I know that We Need To Talk About Kevin could have been better. It had a poorly thought out plot featuring an unbelievable and unrealistic plot point. I love films that deal with dark and macabre subjects, especially ones that are so psychological. I had high hopes for this film, but they were dashed across a wall and laid in front of Tywin Lannister. 

But it wasn’t that bad. I kinda liked it.  

I give it a 6/10. 

Review #7 - Hansee Hall

Welcome back, dear readers. I’m not dead, despite your hopes. Rather, I’ve just been floundering about, without creative spark. Blog post after blog post has been half-written, and fully deleted. These posts have been written from the comfort of my cozy little Hansee Hall room here at the University of WashingtscrewWSU. So for my next attempt at writing a post, I’d like to review Hansee Hall, UW’s oldest dorm.

            Hansee Hall is an Amazonian woman of a building. Made of brick, nothing can topple this building, save for the impending 10.5 earthquake that Seattle is overdue for. It’s situated in the University’s beautiful and wooded north campus, just minutes away from the north dining hall, tourist central the Quad, and the University Village Capitalism Center. The numerous surrounding trees means you can hear the soft sounds of birds chirping, drowned out only by the constant daytime construction and nighttime drunk frat boys and sorority girls. The Tudor architecture gives the dorm a homey, Ivy league feel, so you can pretend like you were actually accepted into your target school.

Hansee Hall in the winter months, covered in a blanket of downtown Seattle traffic accidents.

            The hall was built in the 1930s, which is evident from the interior. The four lounges are spacious and inviting, with secondhand couches and two grand pianos sitting atop the hardwood floors. There is a game room called “The Stagger Inn”, which houses a secondhand pool table, thirdhand pool cues, a ping pong table, and a foosball table. The room is far larger than it needs to be, leading to a vacant and empty feeling gnawing away at you as you fruitlessly knock pool balls around in an attempt to suppress the stresses of your college life. I mean, you’re only in college now, so the stress of daily life can only get worse, right? Existence is pointless anyway, and who’s to say you weren’t just placed on this Earth at this exact moment in time, artificially filled with false memories of earlier life? Not to mention the fact that you’re spending thousands of dollars to get a piece of paper that allows you to get a job which you’ll use to pay off your student loans for years and contribute to a fake and superficial capitalistic society in order to further suppress the feelings you have and attempt to replace them with material items like a new rug or a car you can’t really afford but it doesn’t matter because that’s what society tells you to do so you do it. There is also a TV lounge.

            The rooms are chock-full of amenities, such as a radiator for heating, shelves, a desk, a dresser, a mirror to hate your appearance with, and a beautiful antique armoire. Every room has a harsh overhead light that contributes to your insomnia, but the two outlets in the room means you can plug in a lamp if necessary. Also included in the rooms are ethernet and television hookups, both of which are included in the exorbitant cost of living here.

The average Hansee female's habitat. I downloaded this from the official HFS website. I'm not a creep. 

            Male and female bathrooms are separate, and their positions were apparently determined by a random number generator. It is often the case that two same-gendered bathrooms are literally beside each other, while the nearest opposite-gendered bathroom is farther away. Each bathroom has two stalls, a shower, and a bath. The shower and bath are each in a separate little room to allow for maximum privacy and maximum frustration wHEN PEOPLE CLOSE THE SHOWER DOOR AFTER FINISHING THEIR SHOWER LIKE I CAN JUST SEE THROUGH IT TO TELL IF SOMEONE IS IN THERE! DID I MENTION THEY DO THE SAME THING WITH THE STALL DOORS WHICH REACH THE GROUND SO IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO TELL IF A STALL IS OCCUPIED? DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON LEAVING THE BATHROOM ENTRANCE DOOR OPEN WHILE I’M IN THERE, AS IF THEY WOULD WANT SOMEONE TO LEAVE THE DOOR TO THE HALL OPEN WHILE THEY’RE USING THE TOILET THEMSELVES. OH AND THE LIGHTS CAN JUST STAY ON ALL THE TIME ACCORDING TO MY FLOORMATES! WHO NEEDS TO TURN OFF THE BATHROOM LIGHTS IN A DORM WHICH HAD ITS ELECTRICITY INSTALLED IN THE 1930S?! Hansee Hall is the smallest dorm on campus, yet also consumes the most energy. Please turn off all lights when not in use. And as a courtesy to the next person to use the bathroom, leave all unused stall doors open. Thank you.

If you look closely, you can see a hidden door in the wall behind the pianist.
Kept behind the door are the hopes and dreams of every freshman intended-CS major.

            My final piece of consideration when it comes to living in Hansee is the social atmosphere, or the sense of community. Hansee houses roughly all of the socially awkward residents, and a few who just don’t like roommates. Due to this, the sense of community in Hansee is about as strong as my love life – weak, sad, and littered with failed attempts at fostering it. Don't even try. It's all a sham.

            Overall, I give Hansee a solid 8/10. It’s not perfect, but it’s far better per dollar spent than any other dorm, plus you get your own room in which nobody can tell you that your Star Wars Death Trooper action figure is lame and nerdy.

            This is Niles, signing off. Until next time. Stay cynical.

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Review #6 - Brita Wave Pitcher

Oh hey! I didn't see you there. Can I get you something to drink? Water from my new Brita Wave Pitcher, maybe?

So I figured I'd review my new water pitcher. I've been using this water pitcher for a few weeks now, and I have gathered my thoughts on the matter. Is it good? Is it better than the last one? Does the lid stay on? Stick around to find out, you beautiful person, you.

This was bought to give Brita another chance to impress me, as I am a merciful internet blogger. I'll start by describing the aesthetics, since, as we all know, looks are what really matter in life. I purchased the lime green variation, as opposed to the Walter white, depression grey or daddy issue pink. The color hardly matters, as the pitcher is less colored than a Nickelback concert. There is a small splash of color on the inside of the handle, but that's all she wrote. The rest is either grey, white, or clear. Like the last pitcher, the main body of the pitcher is transparent, allowing it to function as a makeshift fish bowl. The handle is ergonomic and fits nicely in the hand, allowing one to keep a firm grip while pouring one out for the homies.

Behind the pitcher, you can see a Dasani bottle.

I buy these from the vending machine and use them

to fill the pitcher.

To be quite honest, I don't even remember what the lid of the Space Saver Pitcher looked like, so my review of the new lid's functionality is a fresh look. For starters, the lid keeps a firm grip on the pitcher like a helicopter parent on keeps a grip on their child. (On the real, though. At the start of my freshman year I met a cute girl and added her on Facebook. Within minutes, I received a friend request from her father. Who does that? I noped right on out of there.) I have yet to have a demonic experience with this lid, which is good. The opening on the top is very large, allowing you to pour more water in it at once than the entire state of California possesses. The cover for the opening flips up with a press on a nifty little lever embedded in the handle.

Can anybody tell me what this braille says?

The engineers from my last pitcher must have been fired, because this thing is actually a great design. The entire water-pouring process goes swimmingly from beginning to end. It's great, and can hold up to large amounts of water being poured out, like during a party, for example. I love having all my friends come over now, because I'm not afraid that they'll ask for water any longer. Now I can pour them all water and have some laughs with the pals! Hahaha! They're the best. I love them! So many good times! I love having buddies! Please come be my friend I'm so lonely.

My only gripe with the water pitcher is that the little indicator light (telling you the filter needs to be changed) on the top of the lid  went out after like two days and now I just have to accept that I might have slightly higher levels of copper, mercury, and cadmium in my water than before. Oh well. A little mercury never killed anyone. Overall, I actually give this thing a solid 8/10. It has a job, and it performs it well. Very dependable. It's the only friend I need.

TL;DR... Wait, he liked something for once? 8/10

Review #5 - Chappie - or - Die Antwoord: THE MOVIE

For those who are fortunate enough to have not heard of the group Die Antwoord, they are a South African music group thingy who make rap-rave type music. In my opinion, it sounds like a talented DJ adding a backing music track to a domestic violence incident in a trailer park. Regardless of their sound, there are two members: Ninja, an orcish male who uses Stevie Wonder for a barber; and Yolandi Visser, a Gorgon who rivals Ninja for worst haircut in the universe and uses Guillermo del Toro as her makeup artist. Apparently, their publicist was owed a huge favor by Neill Blomkamp, because this movie is not about a lovable sentient robot named Chappie, as I was led to believe. Rather, this movie was about Die Antwoord, and only Die Antwoord. It's just Die Antwoord. Die Antwoord and their adventures, Die Antwoord. Die Antwoord, forever and forever, a hundred years Die Antwoord, s... things. Me and Die Antwoord runnin' around and Die Antwoord time. Aaall day long forever. All, a hundred days Die Antwoord forever a hundred times. Over and over Die Antwoord adventures dot com W W W dot Die Antwoord dot com W W W Die Antwoord adventures all hundred years. Every minute Die Antwoord dot com W W W hundred times Die Antwoord dot com.

What's sin/cos again? Oh yeah, tangent. Anyway, the movie is about Die Antwoord. Ninja and Yolandi had the absolute stroke of publicity genius to play characters named Ninja and Yolandi. They're seriously playing themselves, but in gangster form. Ninja and Yolanda Yells A Lot are gangster criminals who are teamed up with a stereotypical Mexican man named Amerika (I'm not making this up). They steal this robot named Chappie, who the nerdy guy from Slumdog Millionaire created and made sentient through the magical powers of Red Bull and typing on a keyboard real fast. Die Antwoord and their inexplicable partner-in-crime teach Chappie how to be criminals, whilst Die Antwoord music blares in the background, just in case you forgot Die Antwoord had a small part in the production of this abomination of film. Some more stuff happens. Die Antwoord is mentioned a few more thousand times.

I don't feel like walking through every scene in the movie. Just know that some conflict happens. And Yolandi dies. Then the nerdy kid who created Chappie does too. But fear not! To end the movie, Neill Blomkaputt (who I bet drives a PT Cruiser) pulls out A GIANT DEUS EX MACHINA: Chappie is able to transfer the conciousness of both characters into robots! So everything is great, and they live on as robots! Isn't that great? I love happy endings. Haha they're so great. Everything is good. Hahahahaha. I just love the ending so much because it's happy and all loose ends are tied hahah .Ha. Hahahhdfasdfafjohafjohhjoghnfgjfn

Hugh Jackman and Sig Sauer Weaver are also in this film, with smaller roles than their Die Antwoord cast members. Huge Ackman plays a predictable and poorly written Australian antagonist who enjoys tucked-in shirts. To make sure you know he's evil, he carries a gun everywhere and has a mullet. Sign Language Boll Weevil plays the boss of the company for which the nerdy guy and Hue Jackhammer work. Her character is alright, albeit clearly written just to fill gaps in the story. I mean, if the only woman character besides Yolandi isn't going to chastise the two competing male characters, who will?

This movie was an abomination on the big screen. A disgrace to cinema. A humiliation of motion picture. The movie played out like an improvised story I made up while playing with action figures as a child. Except my imagination has better music and deeper character development. The plot is not cohesive in the least, and the cast are all two dimensional cardboard cutouts of cliche action movie characters. The most human of any character in this waste of celluloid is Chappie, who, might I remind you, is a robot.

Did I mention that "Die Antwoord" is mentioned everywhere inside the movie itself, from graffiti on the walls to Ninja's shirt at the end of the movie saying "Yolandi Visser - Die Antwoord"? The film never once attempts to explain any of the blatant marketing present throughout. Rather, it just prefers you don't think about it. Well, I don't follow rules. Commence thinking. So are Ninja and Yolandi of the movie universe the same as their real life counterparts? Did they somehow become poor South African gangsters despite a very successful musical career? Or are they a different Ninja and Yolandi? A Ninja and a Yolandi who are part of a different undefined group called Die Antwoord who listen to Die Antwoord music (which doesn't exist)? It makes no sense. Die Antwoord needs to either exist or not. Neill Blomkamp took Die Antwoord, molded it into the shape of a cat, and shoved it into a box with a vial of poison.

I loved District 9, another film of Neill Blomkamp's. It was a great science fiction film that was both great fun and shockingly gritty. It had a great and somewhat original plot that reached an exciting climax and ended on a good note. Chappie rode on the success of District 9 to build hype, only to disappoint worse than the Seahawks in Super Bowl XLIX. District 9 was like the Seahawks' previous win. Chappie's potential was like the 1 yard to the end zone. Neil Blomkamp was like Pete Carroll. Die Antwoord was like Malcolm Butler. The result in both situations was me leaving angrily and taking a long shower while listening to Dust In The Wind. 1/10.

TL;DR... Die Antwoord. 1/10

Review #4 - 2005 Touring Edition Chrysler PT Cruiser

“Kyle, what tragedy has befallen you that you have come into possession of such an abominable monstrosity? Don’t you have any self respect?”

This is the typical reaction upon hearing that I do, in fact, drive a 2005 Touring Edition Chrysler PT Cruiser in the colorway “chick-magnet chrome”. My sex-on-wheels is named Petunia. Let it be known that I did not buy Petunia. Technically, it’s not even mine. It’s my parents’. When my sister accidentally totaled my first car, my parents let me drive Petunia and they bought a new car. So it was basically free for me. So shut up, okay? If you got a car for free, you'd drive it, too, right? Right? Guys?....

Oh, where do I begin? Well, let’s pretend this is a colonoscopy and start on the outside and work our way in.

To put it bluntly, the PT cruiser looks like a porpoise running into a glass wall. Nothing about the car is aesthetically pleasing. It’s as ugly as Emma Watson isn’t. I mean, the designer of this car must have taken inspiration from a bag of mayonnaise. The front of the car resembles the child of Gene Shalit and a three toed sloth, and the rear resembles Joseph Merrick.

Medusa's car of choice

If you cover the top of the car with your hand, the PT becomes a bathtub on wheels

The interior of the car is spacious, yet downright silly. The first thing that people notice when they reluctantly climb into my ride is the lack of window controls on the door. Then, they notice the strange buttons in the center of the dash.

Fun fact: Every PT Cruiser owner’s manual has the number to the
national psychiatric help hotline written on the front cover. 

Those little lever-button-thingies are actually the window controls. Why are they placed there? The answer to that question still eludes scientists to this day. But it gets better. Not only are the window controls in the middle for the front seats, but the back seats get the same treatment. Rather than put them on the doors, as is logical, the PT Cruiser has the rear window controls near the floor, between the front seats.

This way, you can roll the window down with your foot while you contemplate the series of life
choices that led to you sitting in the back seat of a PT Cruiser

The interior is admittedly spacious. You can fit Donald Trump's ego in the front seat and still have room to spare. The steering wheel is pleasingly large, adding to the feeling that you're driving a vehicle much larger than it really is. The design of the dash gives off a dystopian 1950s vibe. The gauges are all stuck inside of little tubes so you feel like you're looking down a Pringles can every time you check your speed, and a few pieces of the dash are shiny plastic to trick you into thinking metal is actually used in any part of this car's construction.

All the lights on my dash except one recently went out, meaning that I cannot see my speed in the dark. I've tried explaining this during several late-night traffic stops, but no police officer seems to believe me. Apparently smelling alcohol on my breath makes me a liar? But I digress...
In order to fix this problem, one cannot simply open up the dash and replace the lights. Rather, one has to remove the dash from door to door to gain access to the dash lights. So really, maintaining this car is as difficult as looking at it.

Oh, and the driving is as ugly as the aesthetics. My biggest gripe is the turning. The turning radius is just disastrous. Have you ever seen a bow-legged cow stricken with vertigo make a right turn? If you’ve seen a PT Cruiser turn a corner, you’ve gotten close enough. I've done three-point turns just to take a curve on the freeway. The New Horizons probe that slingshot around Jupiter? It was actually a PT Cruiser driver making a U-turn. Once you get up to speed, don't expect to brake quickly. Pushing down the brake pedal feels like stepping on a stack of wet newspaper. The acceleration is pretty abysmal as well. You can floor the gas pedal and still feel like you're driving a depressed slug with a drinking problem. And after driving this, you might have one too.

Overall, I rate the PT Cruiser i/10. There exists no real number that can accurately express my dislike for this car. I wish the car were as imaginary as the number with which I rate it.

TL;DR... *vomits uncontrollably*