Exhaust cans — the aftermarket's black plague

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DRIVER'S SIDE DIATRIBE
By Al Vinikour  al@motorwayamerica.com

Alright, Readers…it’s time for a pop quiz.

Question — When it comes to listening to the noise of an exhaust can I would rather:
      A)  Be yelled at by my ex-wife
      B)  Stick my head inside an engine nacelle on a B-52
      C)  Be molested by that creepy Burger King guy
      D)  Watch a Sponge Bob Square Pants marathon
      E)  All of the above

There is no other answer than “E”. There are a lot of things that irk me…or otherwise I wouldn’t have this column. But one thing that could drive me into serial killerdom is being passed by some four-banger Beater with an exhaust can. I ask you, Wilbur…where is a good Sidewinder missile when you need one? People who insist on putting one of those vehicular depth charges at the end of their tail pipe should be forced to sunbathe in Chernobyl. I understand the theory of them…and they sell well in the aftermarket arena…but the reality is they still loudly proclaim “I’m a proctologist’s dream!”

When a lot of us were growing up we were soothed by the sweet sounds of the exhaust of a V-8 being funneled through the narrow tunnels of glass- or steel-packed mufflers. Those of us who fancied ourselves as societal mavericks would pour a can of oil into the mufflers as we installed them so that eventually they would burn out and you’d in essence be sporting straight pipes…which of course was illegal.

The serious drag racer would install a set of Lakes Pipes and when uncapped achieved extra horsepower and the noise to prove it. Even though there was hearty and ear-damaging noise level it still gave off the satisfying sound of power…V-8 power! Compare that with the collective sound of a hive of flatulent wasps.
It’s like listening to those damned rice rocket motorcycles that dictates you assume the vomiting position to drive. As any motorcycle gang member worth his colors would tell you, “That ain’t no Harley.”
 
I spend a lot of time on airplanes traveling back and forth to the West Coast. When I’m not reading something I look out the window and marvel at how much empty land there is in this country. Why not set aside a few hundred thousand acres (hell…we can burn that much down during a good wildfire) and use it for those maniacs who want to run their rides beyond 5,000 rpm in each gear to listen to the concerto emanating from their chrome-plated rectal thermometers? Set aside another couple of hundred thousand acres for a park for those who ride crotch carts. We can afford it. It’s not as if the horrendous noises would scare away the buffalo or cause mass sterilization among prairie dogs.

The point of this diatribe is that we’re subjected to enough ambient noise, like 1,000-watt speakers sending out bass booms that verge on window-shattering; horns that never stop honking; and now, with the advent of exhaust cans, the decibel-acceleration of a noise obviously created in the depths of Hell.

I propose an Exhaust Can Task Force manned by present and former rock musicians. What better group of individuals to determine what’s an unacceptable noise level than those whose hearing is almost gone because of their own proximity to excess sound? If task force members can hear any noise coming out of an exhaust can then the vehicle’s owner has 20 minutes to remove the offending device. If that rule isn’t complied with then the vehicle itself will be confiscated by the EPA and the offending owners will be immediately sent to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where high-definition recordings of exhaust can noise will be piped into his or her cell 16 hours daily. After a period of six years the offender can reapply for a green card to return to the United States (as part of their initial punishment they automatically lose their U.S. citizenship).
   
To paraphrase Clint Eastwood’s signature line from his movie Gran Torino to, all you “cool daddies with your beater cars and exhaust cans I say 'get off my planet!' ”