Take it from Snee: Your car and you

Waaaaaay back in October 2008, when the pressing concern was how to vote, I wrote about the hidden messages behind bumper stickers. While you may think your memorial bumper sticker tells everyone that you are a passionate person in pain, to everyone else it signals that you might have a death wish to join your lost loved one and to steer clear.

At the time, I thought that was the only way to judge our fellow drivers … until I saw a P.T. Cruiser.

It was at that point that I realized that, while not every car has bumper stickers, every driver chooses a car to express themselves/pick up chicks. (Or, in the case of the minivan, to prevent your spouse from ever picking up chicks again.)

And yeah, I just called your van a car. So’s your truck and SUV. If you’re driving it to work and back, never using it to off-road, it’s a goddamn car.

P.T. Cruiser

Intended Message: I’m fun!

What We’re All Thinking: This is just one of the many bad decisions that sum up my entire life.

There was only one period of time that people bought the P.T. Cruiser in droves: the first three months of its release. It was a novelty item: that car that causes people to confuse familiarity with coolness. They didn’t realize that when people mentioned it by name, it wasn’t because they envied the driver, but because it was the most different car on the road.

It’s like when the least popular kid in school instantly takes the new kid under their wing. They do it because everyone’s talking about the new guy from Minnesota, so they figure becoming their best friend will raise their own popularity.

And, then it turns out that Minnesota Mike is a flatulent, nosepicking failure at everything except Magic: The Gathering.

Acura/Lexus

Intended Message: I’m well-to-do!

What We’re All Thinking: I overpaid for this Honda/Toyota.

Does anything say middle class like the minimal upgrade to stick it to your peer group?

It’s like buying First Class seats on a Delta flight. You’re still flying the cheapest, worst airline in the world.

Hummer

Intended Message: HOLY S#&T, I’M AWESOME! I BET THIS’LL PISS OFF SOME LIBS! USA!

What We’re All Thinking: You don’t get enough respect from your family, friends and coworkers. (Also: did somebody touch you when you were younger?)

The Hummer is a pain in the ass to drive. It barely fits in a lane and has horrible fuel mileage. Most drivers can’t see over the hood. And, you can’t take it off-roading because it won’t fit in most carwashes, and it would take more water to fill your above-ground pool to wash it yourself.

Basically, the only point of the Hummer is to park it in front of your home, office or strip club to impress people.

Unfortunately, the only people impressed by a parked Hummer would also respect you if you pulled a quarter out of their ear or spelled your name in a snowbank with urine. They would probably ask for your autograph if your picture was on a restaurant’s wall for eating their four-pound “Gut-Buster” burger.

This need for any approval–any approval at all–makes us wonder what kind of humiliation you’re still recovering from.

Pick-up Truck

Intended Message: I’m a rugged individualist!

What We’re All Thinking: I think I own more stuff than I really do.

You know those guys who, after a workout, walk around with their arms away from their sides like a comic book hero? We call that “Imaginary Lat Syndrome,” in that it appears the person in question has overestimated just how much bigger their lats are post-workout. (Lats are those wing-things that run along the sides of your body from your ribs to your armpits.)

When was the last time you saw a pick-up truck with a full bed? Chances are that it was an older truck and not one of the many Tacomas and F-150s hauling nothing but a Calvin sticker. You know, where the only thing using the tow hitch is a set of Truck Nutz.

Same as the workout guy above, you know that these are the guys that always leave town when they hear you might need help moving/maxing out on bench.

Cadillac/Lincoln Towncar

Intended Message: I have lots of money.

What We’re All Thinking: You can’t afford a driver.

Before we starting transporting teenagers to mundane events like prom or birthday parties in stretch hummers, the wealthy were driven around in your everyday ghost-driven Cadillac or Lincoln Towncar.

(I say “ghost-driven,” by the way, because you can’t always see the driver over the seat or steering wheel, and they may very well be dead based on their Cryptkeeper look.)

People still buy these cars today because “they have so much room in the backseat,” yet they never sit in the backseat! You could fill the back half in with Styrofoam peanuts and they’d never notice their oxygen tank is missing.

Buying a limo that you drive yourself in is like buying Viagra to masturbate. Sure, the boners are luxurious, but everyone they would impress have either died or don’t want to see an 80-year-old erection.

Motorcycles

Intended Message: I’m dangerous!

What We’re All Thinking: To yourself.

Motorcycles are relics from 1950-1970, which is also when smoking, drunk driving and pointless jungle wars were also cool. In short, coolness was a conspiracy concocted by the United States government to shorten the lifespans of baby boomers who were dangerously overpopulating the post-war job market.

When you see a middle aged man buy his first Harley, that’s not a mid-life crisis; that’s survivor’s guilt. Living to 40 means you were never cool and now, just when the kids have moved out and you can afford a bike, it won’t help. Basically, it’s like taking up smoking after you’re diagnosed with lung cancer. What’s the rush, Duke? You’ll get there soon enough, now.

If you’re young and buy a motorcycle, then thanks! In a highway system that claims over 40,000 lives a year–61 percent of which are completely sober–you’ve chosen a mode of transportation that forsakes:

  • Seatbelts
  • Airbags
  • Walls
  • Windshields
  • Visibly spaced out brake lights and turn signals
  • The ability to stand on its own at an intersection

And will not damage my vehicle in the slightest in an accident. (It’s a pick-up truck, incidentally, and no, there’s nothing in the bed but frayed, useless bungie cords.)