If I could, I'd drive an American flag. Unfortunately, pouring gas on a flag won't get you from zero to sixty or even zero to thirty.
So I drive the ultimate in American cars: a Buick. And not one of the newer ones built after Obama's communist government took over the company. I'm talking about a Nixon year Buick: a 1972 Skylark Sedan. Driving that car is like flying on top of a bald eagle and making it drop its shit on a subcompact hybrid.
If you're a real American, you can hear its engine playing Stars and Stripes Forever--even when its's not running and you're ten miles away. And it smells like Johnny Unitas's jockstrap after an NFL championship game.
A Buick Skylark doesn't honk--it yells at people. And it doesn't just let out some smog--it fills the air with Victory Smoke. And I mean it fills the air. Immediately after I pass a smog check, I reAmericanize the car the way God intended. (By the way--greenhouse gasses are good for the environment.)