I'd say that right now, my teeth have never, ever been cleaner.

I'm serious.

Just like a Dentyne commercial.

But that's only because I had to brush them five times the other night to try and get the taste of burned rubber out of my mouth.

And those clothes I wore to the burnout competition?

They still smell like burned rubber, which means the driver's seat in my car still smells, which means my couch still smells, which means my living room still smells, too.

The stench might not be as strong as it was when I stepped out of the 1972 Chevy Vega affectionately known as "Gaszilla," but there's still that faint smell of melted rubber all over the place, all over my life.

I guess it's not a bad thing if you enjoy smelling like a burning pile of old tires, but I'm trying to make friends here, not send people running in the opposite direction screaming about how bad I stink.

Although, it wouldn't be the first time.

I can safely say, however, that the burnout was one of the more interesting things I've seen in the past few years, if only for the enthusiasm of the people involved and the fact I rode in a car with 800 horsepower that actually shook my soul as its engine purred.

But I myself am no stranger to burnouts.

Oh, no.

In high school, I drove a light blue 1972 Chevy Camaro, a car my mom actually bought in 1972 and a car my dad drove to work for years.

I hit Stewart Schuster's mailbox, the side of our garage and the electrical box in our yard with it, but it still ran like a champ.

A hobbled, recently retired champ, but a champ nonetheless.

My dad had to eventually install a choke on it like a lawnmower, but it could get me to school, lacrosse practice and Taco Bell, which was all I really needed.

Of course, like the ingrate I am, I complained daily about it.

"You guys don't care about me," I would scream. "Peter Leese's parents bought him a Jeep. They love him more than you love me!"

"You should just be glad you have a car, bud," my mom would say. "We could make you walk."

Then, for a little while at least, I would be quiet about the lack of a radio, the fact it would stall in intersections and how unsafe I felt behind the wheel.

But once I started driving it again, my friends and I would visit Taco Bell roughly 632 times a week, when we weren't busy shooting bottle rockets at each other on the highway, that is.

I was such a regular at my Taco Bell that on Sunday mornings, the store manager Brad - who I later learned danced in drag on the side - and the order taker Edie - who was about four and a half feet tall and walked with a limp - would already have my order ready for me when I walked in.

Pathetic? Maybe.

Awesome at the time? Of course.

At night when my friends and I would get food, we'd usually sit there until it closed, then we'd gather up as many sauce packets as we could to toss at oncoming traffic as we drove home, watching them explode on windshields like giant, tasty bugs.

By the way, I don't condone any of my behavior in this column.

But before we would leave the parking lot, sometimes we'd have a mini-burnout. We'd squeal our tires around the corner, laugh maniacally and then do it again the next night, just begging for an arrest or traffic accident.

My little baby burnouts were just like the one I went to the other night, minus the gigantic clouds of smoke, tons of horsepower, any regard for the safety of ourselves or others, an appreciative crowd and, of course, any legality.

Okay, so I guess they're actually nothing alike.

But it least they were both fun.

That's all that really matters, right?

John Van Vleet is a writer for the Hungry Horse News and still smells like he was just run over on Highway 2.