The squealing, smoking tires in the mall parking lot in front of a group of unimpressed 18 year-old girls.
The revving of the engine at the stoplight when he pulls up next to you in your minivan full of children.
The Whyte Spyder guitar solos blaring so loudly from his Radio Shack speakers that it makes the toupe resting on his head vibrate like an epileptic ferret.
All reasons a 46 year-old man in a 1972 Corvette makes a woman's uterus constrict tighter than a whale's blowhole before a deep-sea dive.
The difference between a car and a woman, good sir, is that you might be able to turn on a car.
(P.S. People don't go to carnivals to win MegaLube and catch napkins.)