Maserati, ok?

I've got a Maserati, and I'm ok.
I'm so wonderful that I don't give a damn about other motorists.
WHAT other motorists? If they're NOT driving a Maserati, then they're merely insignificant snails wasting space on MY road.
Yeup, I've got a 4.6L Maserati, and I'm ok.
I blasted along Johns Road last week at drivetime, with that ooooo-so-orgasmic whine that only real high-powered cars make. God, I love red-lining it at 7,500rpm, just to see the adoring stares!
Pahhh! To hell with congested roads - it was like the Biblical parting of the Red Sea! Cretins in toy cars fell behind me as I effortlessly cut between them. Surely they appreciated my God-like power: I can hit 227kmph in just 24.8 seconds!
Indicators? WHY would I need to use those? After all, my Maserati was so fast on the wet road that, by the time the snails SAW my blinkers, I was already ten car-lengths ahead.
Yea, baby, I'm drivin' a Maserati, ok?
Oh, and did I mention it cost three times your annual salary?
Sooooo nice of the Christchurch City Council to lay down such silky-smooth asphalt to complement my ultra-quiet Maserati interior, plush Maserati comfort and kickin' Maserati 434hp.
Yes, I DO have a Maserati, and I'm bloody ok.
So, to all the pedantic peasants in their family Familias, tank-like Toyotas, sullen Subarus, and other examples of automotive alliteration: suck my exhaust fumes!
I own probably the only black late-model Maserati penis extension in Christchurch. I'm a total wanker, and I drive like one: inconsiderate, irresponsible and FAST. I don't give a bloody damn about road rules, road conditions or road users.
Y'see, I've got a Maserati, and I'm f***in' A!