This Is The Worst Car-Themed Music Video Ever Made
Watch it if you dare
by Imthishan Giado
What, you haven’t seen this yet? Forget Rebecca Black, forget Friday – this is the most cringe-inducing four minutes you’ll ever see. And unfortunately for us, it features what could be one of the fastest cars in the world. The full horror, after the jump…
For the uninitiated – this is the Mosler MT900.
Image: Autoblog/Mosler
One of the many, many challengers to the Veyron throne of superspeed king, the Mosler is little more than a swoopy fibreglass body attached to – what else – a 530bhp Chevrolet V8 tuned to within an inch of its life.
The Raptor GTR, on the other hand, is something else entirely. As in, literally.
It’s a long complicated story, but the Mosler Raptor GTR is the MT900 tuned to 838bhp, with a claimed power-to-weight ratio better than the Bugatti Veyron. Given that Bugatti’s 1000bhp engineering masterpiece was built to exacting specifications and took years and years to tame to a level that an ordinary driver could use without finding the quickest way to the afterlife, one imagines the Mosler is not quite as safe to potter about.
But today, that’s not the point.
What is the point is this bonkers music video created by chief engineer Todd Wagner and partner/possible girlfriend although she denies it/crime against music Abbey Cubey to promote both her music career and the Raptor.
It’s hard to put in words how badly they missed the mark. About the only thing that survives this cataclysm unscathed is the poor Raptor, which suffers the indignity of being stood on constantly by a diminutive woman in five-inch heels and an ill fitting black leather jumpsuit shrilly squawking out badly lip synched lyrics about fire and clutches and turbos and how you’ll feel her fire, while she’s constantly suggestively grabbing gears and yanking back on them like your fun bits were some sort of Vegas slot machine handle, with all the care that implies.
That doesn’t even begin to encompass how bad this is, from the shufflin’ b-boy to the bored and chunky dancers, to the producer plinking away on the unplugged keyboard at the beginning, to the fire that occasionally engulfs all the participants in this travesty. It’s an epic disaster filmed by an epileptic cameraman with all the grace of a dying duck.
Without further ado, I now present, ‘Feel My Fire.’
