Anyone into Diecast Cars?

  On 6/24/2020 at 12:00 AM, President Squidward said:

A friend of mine got me into these videos a few months ago. I also love those marblelympics videos from a different youtuber. I must say though the made up music used for these races can be cringe sometimes but still a fun thing to watch and do with diecast cars.

Ah no that music is one of the best parts cause its exactly appropriate to sporting events and what they would have on stuff like ESPN bullshit. So hilarious, and I just watched one where, at the end, the channel guys were rapping over trap beats about like stuff that had happened in previous races! It was so dad jokes.

  On 6/25/2020 at 1:44 AM, eh Speedy said:

Ah no that music is one of the best parts cause its exactly appropriate to sporting events and what they would have on stuff like ESPN bullshit. So hilarious, and I just watched one where, at the end, the channel guys were rapping over trap beats about like stuff that had happened in previous races! It was so dad jokes.

true, it does make sense and has funny moments in that context, perhaps i'm just being too fucking cyncial  

My uncle was heavily into diecast cars. As a kid he’d invite me over to his cramped flat to admire his collection and watch him polish some of his favourite “diceys”, or “wellies” as he’d sometimes refer to them. The unmistakable smell of Diecast Delight would greet you as soon as you stepped into his apartment. This particular blend of diecast car polish, old potatoes (he fought in the East Indies) and rolling tobacco will be part of my olfactory scrapbook until the day I die. Usually he’d be sitting at the brightly lit table in his front room where he also kept his 2 caged parakeets, which he loved very dearly even though they didn’t seem to be able to reciprocate any of the warm feelings he had towards them, or even acknowledge his existence beyond screeching loudly when he would playfully rattle their cage. This realisation always made me slightly sad but it didn’t seem to affect Gerard, my uncle, as he sat there enthusiastically polishing one of his many diecast cars. Though as I got older it wasn’t just the lack of avian love that made my heart sink ever so slightly as I made my way through the maze, a maze that served as a sort of threshold or even safeguard between the harsh daily reality of live for the average East Indies veteran in the Netherlands at the time and my uncle’s own fantastic world of diecast metal, plastic windshields and miniaturised emblems, of discarded bottles of Diecast Delight and stained rags that made up the hallway of my uncle’s subsidised flat. After offering me a cup of tea or perhaps some lukewarm carvan cevitam during summer, Gerard would let whatever diecast miniature model car he’d been caressing slide from his rag and let it gently roll onto the dark solid oak table where he spent most of his time. “Do you want to inspect it?” he’d ask, I could feel his expectant gaze as he stood over me waiting to pick up the carefully reproduced vehicular effigy. But as I grew older the tiny diecast cars stayed the same size, and every couple of months they would seem less impressive as I ran my fingers across their roofs and bonnets and spun their perfectly reproduced but useless wheels and I started to realise that my uncle didn’t even have a drivers license, let alone own a car. He’d never be able to take me anywhere in one of his many ford reproductions and would never casually toss me the keys to his beautiful red fiat panda, offering me my first lesson in a deserted industrial estate. My uncle didn’t realise this as he started showing up after school insisting that I “hop in” as he tried forcing my head through the doorframe of a tiny sparkling Subaru, or rather trying to push the Subaru through my skull. As he started to notice the tears in my eyes and my whimpers his sense of proportional awareness would return and he’d slowly loosen his grip on the minuscule automobile. “Vroom, vroom” he’d mutter, aiding the car in a meandering coast down the side of my body. His other arm, in which the shrapnel of the mine that his commander in the East Indies stepped on was still embedded, came up with a trembling hand clutching the diecast delight stained rag he would bring up to his mouth while inhaling deeply. 
 

The fuck.. 

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