In the November Car and Driver, P. J. O’Rourke recants:
Yes, 33 years ago in the pages of this magazine I called the 911 an “ass-engined Nazi slot car.” I apologize. Not that the 911’s powerplant doesn’t loom behind its transaxle. And not that the 911’s progenitor, Ferry Porsche, wasn’t a utility infielder on the wrong team during the last World War. And not that a mistaken lift of a 911’s throttle won’t result in Aurora Plastics model-racetrack ess-bend behavior, except in 1-1 scale taking out the whole back of the hobby shop. Besides, to be precise, I was referring to a 930 Turbo, with love-handle fenders and looking like it had backed into a cocktail waitress and driven off with her serving tray. But I’m sorry.
Eventually, P. J. fesses up: he bought one. A 964-series Carrera, vintage 1990. And he loves it, kinda sorta:
The interior is as cozy as a visit home to mom. She has a meth lab in my old bedroom.