Cervantes Was Wrong About Everything

Here's an adecedarian I wrote the other day.

About what I said before about the
Breakneck speed of my all white, exploding,
Catastrophic, glorious hunk of metal. She’s my
Dulcinea, or was it Rocinante that he rode all night,
Ever-questing across the deserts, upon his
Fair steed? Regardless she’s got the horsepower, the
Giddy up, of a thousand stallions, especially when I
Hit the gas, step on it, kick my spurs into the floorboards.
It impresses people when they hear her bellow from the
Jet streams of tar and soot of her hindquarters, the
K&N air recycler pushing us across the plains of
La Mancha, across town to the next party, the
Mandatory fiesta of the week. Chivalry is
Not dead. My roommates came home with an
Ordinary new girl every night, spending the
Pleasant evenings locked away. I’m the Don
Quijote of this great place, taught to me by the many
Romantic movies I watch, I learn the pick-up moves, the
Smooth talk that all the pretty plastic chicas swoon for.
Tomorrow I’m trying on some new armor that
Undoubtedly will help me get a better transaction
Verifying, castle storming, 401K stock option,
Windmill chasing career they sent me a
Xeroxed copy about. I just hope I’m not too over-
Zealous about the whole thing.