I’ve been to the junkyard, plenty. As a matter of fact, I’ve been to the junkyard to get parts for 1960s Mustangs, and their idiot adopted cousin, the Fairlane. A proper junkyard is full of snakes, yo. As a matter of fact, we used to go snake hunting in the junkyard. You’re going car hunting in a snakeyard. Wearing toddler shorts ain’t helping your look, either, dude. And you keep returning to the junkyard without any tools. You’re on the Motor Trend channel, so you’re obviously dilettantes, so we’ll move on.
I love calling it rollerskating. It drives guys like this right up the wall. Er, I mean further up the wall. Somehow he thinks calling them roller blades is supposed to make them cool. I am beset by doubts on that score.
Back before everyone lost their minds, the role of a man and a dog and a rat in nature’s pecking order was well understood. Men are born to get sh*t done. Dogs are domesticated to help them. Rats are nobody’s friend. That’s that. Or, it used to be that, anyway.