What Your Dream Car Says About You

You grew up listening to Snoop Dogg and Nate Dogg, and your current ringtone is "White Walls" by Macklemore.

You grew up somewhere in middle America and you use orange Gojo as your body wash.

You grew up in middle America and you can't stand grease on your hands.

You the kind of person who, when asked what bourbon you want at the bar, says "what ever is the best."

You saw one of these at Stinson Beach in Marin County, CA as a kid and realized it was a badass version of a punch buggy.

You've wanted a prancing horse ever since you found out that those words don't refer to a Lipizzaner, and you know there's just something magical about a V12. That or you spend all of your time at work watching Chris Harris videos.

You think fast cars are cool, but you've asked the question, "How much does the Ford Camaro GT500 cost?" before.

You refer to yourself as a "grease-monkey" and listen to ZZ Top.

You researched exactly how much each part cost on every single car in the original The Fast and the Furious and checked every auto mechanic school to see if there were degrees in drifting.

You're a JDM fanatic who's not really all that into The Fast & The Furious.

You like eating beef that you killed and seasoned on your own, and tattoos, and guns, and loud noises. You're not subtle, but you are a badass.

Pebble Beach Concours d'Elegance. That's your shit right there. Also, you wish you could be a race car driver, but not a modern day one; you want to be a '60s race car driver who wears tweed and drinks lots of whiskey.

You repeatedly have dreams that you're in an enormous throne, smoking a hand-rolled Cuban with a gorgeous woman off to the side holding your cane that doubles as a revolver. You have a deep-seated desire to tell underlings what to do.

You know a good mechanic, and you probably have an enormous selection of cuff links and pocket squares.

You don't see the point of being rich unless you go completely balls-to-the-wall batshit nuts with your money. Which is why you also probably own the $7.5 million pure gold model of said Aventador.

Your desire for a crazy European supercar is tempered by your intense patriotism. You can't decide whether American flag pants are a disgrace or the greatest invention you've ever seen.

You're a bit funky, you listen to lots of jazz on an immaculate gramophone, and you read I.D.

You might not be the most creative, but nobody can fault your analysis. You've been making your favorite chocolate milk shakes since you were 10, becase, "It's just a classic!"

You own a Jeep Wrangler, and you love it, but it doesn't have enough swagger for your taste. As a kid, you once tried pulling your tooth with a winch.

You've been dreaming of owning a Corvette since you were setting up exact diecast model scenes of old races at age six. And this is most certainly not a mid-life crisis. It might just take you 50 years to afford it.

You're not interested in anything but lap times. You also probably shop for groceries by looking at the unit price.

You want an environmentally friendly car but you're not willing to have a crappy car. You probably can taste the difference between different types of sparkling water.

You're a sucker for small automakers, and you leave reruns of Top Gear on the television every morning as you get ready for work. Things like active aero and the size and type of brakes are extremely important to you.

You're either a sophisticated gentleman with a hankering for a supercar, or you just fucking love those doors.