“Hold onto your butts.”

Ah, the immortal Samuel L. Jackson and his cryptic words of wisdom before doing something that would both save the asses of everyone trapped in Jurassic Park while completely screwing over the slow kid stuck to the electric fence. In a somewhat premeditated move, I chose these very words to describe how I feel the night before I take delivery of a 1995 BMW M3 coupe from San Diego that I bought sight unseen.

In one regard, I have feelings of great anticipation. Hope for redemption, that after falling out of love seemingly overnight with my 2003 BMW 330i ZHP, that the M3 will indeed unlock Pandora’s Box of daily-driver bliss. That like the moment ol’ Samuel realized he had found the path to potential safety from certain death by tyrannosaurus, I have discovered the automotive fountain of youth, where, with every turn of the key, I am reminded that a car can deliver such satisfaction that its welcome is never worn out.

At the same time, I could be that idiot who climbed so God-awfully slow up the fence that you were almost rooting for him to get his brains fried when the juice was pumped through the lines. As you watched, you’re at first cheering for him, something like this: “Yeah, Jeff – a nice, clean E46. It’s got modern safety features, functioning air conditioning, hasn’t been stolen and put back together after an insurance auction, etc…” But then, as you watch little Joey Mazzello climb up the fence like he’s afraid it’s going to give him AIDS you start to think, “Goddamnit, you’re  a few apples short of  bushel, ain’t ya? You know what? You deserve whatever you have coming to you. Sam Jacks, turn that mother on and let’s see some suffering.”

All that said, I’m not sure what side of the fence I’ll end up on. Slowly taking a drag from a cigarette after a job well done, or writhing in pain as my intestines turn to jello.

Either way, it’s safe to say we better grab hold of our posteriors and hope for the best. The M3 should be here by this time tomorrow night.