Barreling down a narrow Dallas residential street, his 1987 Ford Crown Vic screams in agony as it squeals, squeaks, and rattles with every dip and crack in the road. The neglected V8 engine purred like a retarded stray cat with a fatal illness, as he revs the speed up to over 60 mph. “That Asian kid better move cause I ain’t slowing down.” Ghetto Man thinks to himself. "Scott, watch out." Kenny says casually to me as I'm standing close to the middle of the road, not realizing just how fast Ghetto Man was approaching. I only make a small side step before the said vehicle comes flying past, literally, since he had caught a little air after going over a bump in the road. The four of us can only stand awed by what we had just seen, as the Crown Vic speeds off into the distance and the high-pitched squeals become faint. “Ghetto man don’t play.” This was two weeks ago the Tuesday after Gateway Cup at around 7AM, hour 13 of an entirely too long drive straight from St. Louis. I’m writing about it because at 1AM last night Nick drunk-dialed me after seeing a Cadillac come howling by him somewhere, probably in front of his house in Euless since his street seems like a hot bed for ghetto car antics. “Ghetto man’s headed your way Scotty, watch Mopac.” However inebriated Nick may have been he still had the consciousness to think of his loyal blog readers, who had been deprived of material since Labor Day weekend. He told me to tell the story of Ghetto man, as a cautionary tale to those who may stand in the middle of Casa Loma Ave. at 7AM on a Tuesday morning. Watch yo’ selves, -Vegg Note: If you’re not Kenny, Brad, Nick, or myself, this story probably isn’t all that funny or interesting.