Snow Crash and the Technicolor Apocalypse

So for those of you who don't know: Snow Crash is a book.

It's written by a man who looks like an evil wizard and
is so under appreciated by the body populace that it hurts.

I won't waste your time with some grand synopsis or blather
on about how influential it was for me as an angsty
teenage rebel but I'll give you a small excerpt:

"The Deliverator’s car has enough potential energy packed
into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid
Belt. Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator’s
car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished
sphincters. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down,
shit happens. You want to talk contact patches?
Your car’s tires have tiny contact patches, talk to the asphalt
in four places the size of your tongue. The Deliverator’s car
has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat
lady’s thighs. The Deliverator is in touch with the road,
starts like a bad day, stops on a peseta."

Yep, it's like that.