I love my ricer, and it will smoke anything here. It can do 82MPH without shifting out of the first of 6 gears, and goes from naught to 60 in less than 5 seconds. It only makes 105HP at the rear wheels, but it has a redline of 16,000RPM, and only weighs 350lbs. I love my 2006 GSXR600.
My favorite part about my truck is that I can walk almost any honda out there, even with my ridiculously short gears, and still climb my front wheel up on their hood if they want to get twitchy on me. And I agree that there is a huge difference between ricers and tuners. Tuners work on very well kept hondas, subarus, maseratis, lamborghinis, etc. Ricers work on their mom's rusted out oldsmobile or their friend's falling apart mazda, and will never see under the hood of a car costing more than $5K.
Tuners tune for performance with beauty as a necessity but as an afterthought, and rarely say much. Typically their numbers and performance speak louder than their words.
Ricers tack a coffee can to their exhaust tip, zip a wing into the trunk with self-tappers, change the tail lights out for euro lights they got from the pawn shop, and try to assert their dominance through wanton verbiage, and annoying music. Obviously decibel level is directly proportioned to performance in the ricer's mind, be it exhaust note, bass volume, or cat call.
Typically a ricer can be observed with his "pants on the ground," talking and bullying next to his (almost always) parked car. If you are unfortunate enough to catch one on the road, they are typically seen spinning a (only one) wheel on a patch of wet pavement to show how powerful their unmodified grocery getter is, or standing unnecessarily on the accelerator pedal to emit an exhaust note that sounds almost fantastic from within the confines of the teensy passenger space, but sounds not unlike the bleating of a castrated sheep to everyone within a dozen blocks.
Typically their vehicles are a multitude of unmatched primer colors from the bodywork they paid for buy borrowing against their allowance from their parents, or mowing laws. Rarely after adding bodywork do the ricers have the funds available for a bad paint job.
You may also find the ricer's vehicle damaged on one or both sides, missing mirrors typically from sliding into the conrete retaining wall on the freeway after losing control of the primative machine that was designed to be just powerful enough for a soccer mom, or daily commute. It is truly awe-inspiring how one could lose control of such a tepid machine, but alas, the industrious ricer never allows what can be repaired with more self-tappers and duct tape to stand in the way of the machine they believe is their ticket to sex, money, and a total freedom from responsibility.