J30MAN
Well-Known Member
tonites episode was the best of this season...full of win
Top Gear America.... Win or Fail???
- Thread starter dadams
- Start date
CrosCntryAccord
Well-Known Member
will watch tomorrow on street fire
imaricer:)
Well-Known Member
J30MAN
Well-Known Member
agreed....maybe next season will be different.
ryan s
they dont think it
great episode 
9450erick
Well-Known Member
funniest episode ever
love when they crash chuck norris
also when rutledge lost his house
love when they crash chuck norris
also when rutledge lost his house
What James May thinks of the Top Gear America Presenters:
Anyway. I’d now like to consider the US version of the popular television soap Top Gear. I don’t envy the three blokes who have this job, because they are required to adopt a format that is already, for some strange reason, watched all over the world in its original guise.
There they are, hamstrung by our conventions but bereft of the eight-year inheritance during which we have carefully cultivated our mutual loathing of each other.
Ultimately, though, I believe they will vanquish us and stand on our mutilated corpses, holding Clarkson’s severed head aloft like Perseus triumphing over Medusa, and all because they have the right names.
We begin with professional racing driver Tanner Foust. Not only has he apparently emerged from the pages of Goethe, he actually sounds like he’s giving the car a thrashing.
I can just see myself, hampered with the name James May, trying to charm someone at a ball-aching media function when this snake-hipped b-----d shimmies up and says: “Hi, Tanner Foust, racing driver.”
That’s worth five seconds a lap on the great circuit of life and he’s across the line while I’m still poncing around in the pits.
Next up we find actor Adam Ferrara. He’s virtually named after a car, for Pete’s sake. Even if I’d achieved this distinction I’d be called something like Mr MG Magnette.
This man simply wasn’t going to appear on an internet yoga channel any more than Emerson Fittipaldi was going to become the proprietor of a shoe shop.
I can just see myself, lumbered with a single-syllable surname evoking a popular bank holiday, trying to impress someone in a bar, when this drawling handsome git glides in and announces himself as a human supercar. It’s not really fair and I blame my parents.
Finally, we have Rutledge Wood, who is some sort of automotive analyst. He has a beard, he’s been seen in lumberjack shirts, he has nerdy specs, he’s from Alabama and he might even be a bit chubby. I’ve read him described as “bookish”.
And well he might be. In Britain, Rutledge Wood is probably a place where you should be careful not to step on any spent condoms, but over there he sounds more like the author of the Great American Novel, soon to be serialised in the mornings on Radio 4.
I can just see myself on a long-haul flight, contemplating my predictably biblical name and leafing through the complimentary magazine, and then coming across one of those twittish what-I’m-taking-on-holiday celebrity Q&As.
The question will be: “What’s in your hand luggage?” The answer will be: “Some moisturiser, my iPod and the latest Rutledge Wood.”
We cannot compete with this. Once again, what’s true of cars is also true of life. These men are destined for greatness, and I’m not, as were the Triumph Stag and Austin Maxi respectively.
I hate them already.
Taken from: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/motoring...ear-US-why-I-hate-the-presenters-already.html
Anyway. I’d now like to consider the US version of the popular television soap Top Gear. I don’t envy the three blokes who have this job, because they are required to adopt a format that is already, for some strange reason, watched all over the world in its original guise.
There they are, hamstrung by our conventions but bereft of the eight-year inheritance during which we have carefully cultivated our mutual loathing of each other.
Ultimately, though, I believe they will vanquish us and stand on our mutilated corpses, holding Clarkson’s severed head aloft like Perseus triumphing over Medusa, and all because they have the right names.
We begin with professional racing driver Tanner Foust. Not only has he apparently emerged from the pages of Goethe, he actually sounds like he’s giving the car a thrashing.
I can just see myself, hampered with the name James May, trying to charm someone at a ball-aching media function when this snake-hipped b-----d shimmies up and says: “Hi, Tanner Foust, racing driver.”
That’s worth five seconds a lap on the great circuit of life and he’s across the line while I’m still poncing around in the pits.
Next up we find actor Adam Ferrara. He’s virtually named after a car, for Pete’s sake. Even if I’d achieved this distinction I’d be called something like Mr MG Magnette.
This man simply wasn’t going to appear on an internet yoga channel any more than Emerson Fittipaldi was going to become the proprietor of a shoe shop.
I can just see myself, lumbered with a single-syllable surname evoking a popular bank holiday, trying to impress someone in a bar, when this drawling handsome git glides in and announces himself as a human supercar. It’s not really fair and I blame my parents.
Finally, we have Rutledge Wood, who is some sort of automotive analyst. He has a beard, he’s been seen in lumberjack shirts, he has nerdy specs, he’s from Alabama and he might even be a bit chubby. I’ve read him described as “bookish”.
And well he might be. In Britain, Rutledge Wood is probably a place where you should be careful not to step on any spent condoms, but over there he sounds more like the author of the Great American Novel, soon to be serialised in the mornings on Radio 4.
I can just see myself on a long-haul flight, contemplating my predictably biblical name and leafing through the complimentary magazine, and then coming across one of those twittish what-I’m-taking-on-holiday celebrity Q&As.
The question will be: “What’s in your hand luggage?” The answer will be: “Some moisturiser, my iPod and the latest Rutledge Wood.”
We cannot compete with this. Once again, what’s true of cars is also true of life. These men are destined for greatness, and I’m not, as were the Triumph Stag and Austin Maxi respectively.
I hate them already.
Taken from: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/motoring...ear-US-why-I-hate-the-presenters-already.html
Wildman
Read the rules
Haha, the James May piece was a fun read, thanks for posting that.
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