[caption id="attachment_5668" align="alignnone" width="480"] The pylon tells you that people really race these saucy little club tarts. Yeah, right.[/caption]
Roger the Scottsdale Ferrari Salesman: My name's Roger, Sir. May I be of some help?
Memphis: That's funny, my name's Roger... Two Rogers don't make a right.
Memphis: Roger, I have a problem...
Roger the Car Salesman: Yes?
Memphis: I've been in L.A. for three months now. I have money, I have taste. But I'm not on anybody's "A" list, and Saturday night is the loneliest night for the week for me.
Roger the Car Salesman: Well, a Ferrari would certainly change that.
Memphis: Perhaps, Mmmm. But, you know, this is the one. Yes, yes yes... I saw three of these parked outside the local Starbucks this morning, which tells me only one thing. There's too many self-Indulgent wieners in this city with too much bloody money! Now, if I was driving a 1967 275 GTB four-cam...
Roger the Car Salesman: You would not be a self-indulgent wiener, sir... You'd be a connoisseur.
Memphis: Precisely. Champagne would fall from the heavens. Doors would open. Velvet ropes would part.