Recently, we at The Lemon were asked to compare the 2019 GMC Terrain vs 2019 Hyundai Tucson. And while we could have easily tasked the assignment to one of our in-house writers, we started thinking “New Year, New Us”. As such, we decided that a fresh voice might infuse our content with a fresh energy. But in seeking a candid, insightful automotive review from the perspective of an untapped demographic we were forced to think outside the box in terms of where to start.
To help fuel the epic results of our search, we followed the footsteps of history’s great thinkers. In other words, we got drunk in Cochise County, Arizona (location being the least important part of our plan) and decided to do some fishing. And it was sometime after we had broken into the second handle of Fireball (acquiring heat stroke under 105+degree sunlit conditions) when we met local legend, “Rattlesnake Jack” Frederico, a shirtless independent prospector with a sweet-ass leather cowboy hat. Fast-forward through a few hours of gold-panning, and a couple of fireside possum burgers, and we were certain that we had found our guy.
Unfortunately for us (as well as our faithful readers) it turned that Rattlesnake Jake wasn’t very good with what he called, “the words”. Suddenly, we found ourselves feeling conflicted about our choice, stuck somewhere between “this is the guy” and “we might as well write it ourselves”. But our newfound doubts were quickly silenced by the after-effects of fire-warmed possum, which (be warned) is one of the trickier meats one might partake in. Needless to say, it was minutes before we were tripping balls, frantically scrawling each and every slurred word that Rattlesnake Jack uttered into our notepads like a 1940’s cub reporter on 2017 crystal meth.
“I don’t know much ‘bout yer fancy cars,” Jack admitted with an admirable sense of humility. “That said, I ain’t seen two turds that big and pointless since last Tuesday when I shit a creamy wraparound behind that tree over there. Panning for gold ain’t no sissy work, and both them there cars are far sissy-boys.”
“Are you two sissy-boys?”, he asked. We shrugged dismissively, eager to hide the subtle smell of the bee-balm chapstick we had been sharing to protect ourselves from the sun. He then stared deeply into our eyes and whispered, “You boys smell like honeycomb.”
Enduring the semi-rapey vibe being thrown off by our dirty new friend, we continued to listen on he assessed each of the SUVs in terms of how effective they would be a gold miner. From versatility over aggressive terrains to cargo space for panning and mining gear, Rattlesnake Jake offered some truly insightful thoughts as he extolled the virtues of both. But like an inexperienced, meth-addicted intern of yesteryear it turns out that we didn’t write anything down. I, for example, was doing little more than scribbling (forgetful that I’m the product of a generation failed by the public school system, having never learned cursive). My co-worker Boosh, on the other hand, proved himself a competent cartoonist sketching an impressive caricature of Steve Buscemi eating, what appears to be, a singing burrito.
Was our guest correspondence experiment a success? Debatable. But regardless of the outcome, let us never forget the most important lesson:
While both tender and delicious, consumption of possum meat, prepared over uneven temperatures, can result in impaired judgment, hallucinations and an awkward same-sex three-way atop a pile of scattered gold chips.
