Bumper Stickers

There’s only one thing more frustrating than getting stuck behind a garbage truck while driving:  getting stuck behind a minivan that has “My child is an honor roll student” stickers plastered all over the rear bumper. Sure it’s not as smelly as getting stuck behind a garbage truck, but it’s really f’ing obnoxious and just as gross.

First of all, there’s never just one sticker—instead there are usually 9 or 10 or 11. This is not only entirely excessive, but also, if you think about it, completely nonsensical. That is, how can a kid in high school be on the honor roll that many times when there are only eight semesters during the span of four years? There’s the possibility that the kid is a super senior. But that doesn’t really make sense because being a super senior doesn’t correspond with being on the honor roll. The only other thing that comes to mind is that maybe the mom driving the minivan is a horny Catholic and has more than one kid. However, unless there’s a WWJD sticker somewhere amid the sea of honor roll ones or a rosary hanging from her rearview mirror, this can’t really be confirmed.

In any case, the ubiquity of these bumper stickers isn’t the only thing that’s aggravating about them. The smug smile on the face of that gloating parent is probably even more irritating. You can just tell that they think their kid is better than yours. However, if they knew what their little brat was up to last weekend at Susie Q’s house (sniffing glue), I bet they wouldn’t be so full of themselves. I also bet they wouldn’t be so full of themselves if they knew that my kid is double-jointed. I don’t have an adhesive stuck to Gilbert’s ass advertising this fact, but if I did, you bet they’d be jealous.

Unless, of course, the parental unit driving that minivan is a liar. After all, anyone can buy one of those pretentious stickers and try to conceal the fact that their kid is really a dumb ass because she was dropped on her head as a baby. And as sad as this reality is, there’s no way of distinguishing the pretenders from the contenders. At least not until graduation when everyone sees that their child is wearing mardi gras beads instead of gold honor cords.

Needless to say, all of this confusion only serves to increase one’s frustration over these ridonkulous bumper stickers, as well as the likelihood that the school parking lot will turn into a bumper car arena. And given that car insurance companies don’t usually cover such frivolity, something obviously needs to be done. Unfortunately, I have no solutions to offer…maybe that’s because the only roll I’ve ever been all over was a baguette.

Ridin'

Jason Derulo might like “ridin’ solo”, but I hate it. As an authority on this subject, given all the time I spend alone with me, myself, and I everyday in the car, I think “ridin’ solo” is generally rather depressing. Indeed, it seems like it’s more of a recipe for ridin’ so low rather than feeling like a star on cloud nine, as Mr. Derulo proclaims. Not to mention, it’s also probably fairly inefficient given that ridin’ solo means ridin’ so slow during rush hour traffic when the HOV lanes are off limits to single drivers.

In addition to driving by myself, I’m also not really a fan of “ridin’ dirty”. Chamillionaire and Krayze Bone support it, but they also support driving while high and intoxicated. That goes without saying they’re probably not the safest people to carpool with. At any rate, it’s obvious that I don’t get how these celebutards like to roll. Maybe it’s because I prefer ridin’ loco.

Subaru Drivers

Why do people hate on Subaru drivers? Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is. Who gives a flying rubber ducky about what kind of car someone prefers to drive? It’s nobody’s business in the first place. And in the second place, it’s not as though Subaru drivers put other drivers at risk on the road. In fact, they are consistently proven to be safe and responsible behind the wheel.

Nonetheless, Subaru drivers continue to be the objects of prejudice, contempt, and irrational fear. They are frequently subjected to angry horns, middle fingers, and disdainful stares by other drivers. What’s more, they are usually charged higher car insurance rates and issued more speeding tickets on average when compared to other drivers. As if this isn’t bad enough, in some place it is actually illegal for Subaru drivers to “come out” of the garage and openly drive on the road; and, up until recently, they were not allowed to drive in the military.

All in all, Subaru drivers are hardly treated better than road kill. But on what basis is all of this bigotry justified? As previously mentioned, Subaru drivers are not a menace on the road; they do not put other drivers at risk. Yet, they continue to be marginalized as second rate drivers, most especially because their cars are not made by Ford. But why should a car made by Ford be any better than a Subaru or any other vehicle for that matter? A car is a car. And if a Ford car is the be-all-end-all on the road, why do drivers not seem to have any problems with cars produced by other companies coming out of the garage?

All that being said, it seems that society still has a long way to travel down the road toward equality. Even though much progress has been made in the last several decades, from allowing women to drive on the highway to permitting people of different ethnicities to drive together in the same car, there are many roadblocks in the way of a smooth ride for all drivers.

Ants in Mah Pants

Thank hayzeus for cruise control. Without it, hayzeus only knows how many accidents I would’ve been in by now. I mean, I’m probably bound to be a highway statistic anyway, given how much time I spend on the road. But I’m not…yet. And I’d say that’s largely due to cruise control. So again, thank hayzeus—and Ralph Teetor.  

The thing is I have ants in my pants. For real. Well, not for real. Except that one time. But seriously, I can’t sit still when I’m driving. I’m constantly squirming in my seat or playing with the radio or surreptitiously picking my nose or all of the above at once. I don’t know what my deal is. Sure, I spend an inordinate amount of time in the car each day, and that could make anyone a little bit antsy. But what if it’s something worse, something pathological? What if it’s ADD?

When I first heard about Automotive Driving Disorder, I must admit that I didn’t believe it was real. I thought it was just another excuse to use the juice. The latest reason for our hypochondriac society to pop some more pills. And for doctors and pharmaceutical companies to make more money. But now I’m not so sure. The symptoms all seem to fit the bill. I get distracted easily by car insurance commercials on the radio (so easy a caveman can do it!), I have trouble concentrating on which lane I’m supposed to be in, I procrastinate when it comes to getting gas, and I get lost easily because I have trouble following directions that involve multiple steps. Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

So now I’m thinking maybe this shizzo is the real deal, and maybe I’ve got it. On the other hand, I don’t want to jump to conclusions because one could very easily pathologize every single character flaw. The problemo is that the diagnostic process is so damn subjective, and I’ve never been too great with self-evaluation. My internal GPS is about as good as Forest Gump is at math.

In any event, I’m not sure any of this matters. Whether or not I’m certifiable, I’m still an accident waiting to happen (literally and figuratively). But it’s okay. I’ve got cruise control and I've got hayzeus on my neck-a-lace. All I need to do is buy life alert and I’ll have all my bases covered.

The Hitchhiker/Bob

So, the hitchhiker’s name was Bob. He was standing on the corner at the stoplight with his freakishly long, left thumb confidently extended toward the traffic. He also had long hair (like I’d imagine Osama Bin Laden’s would be without the turban) and wore Jesus sandals. The Jesus sandals sold me. Not only would I get my adventure, but I’d get to play Good Samaritan as well. The whole two birds with one stone thing.

I pulled up and attempted to innocuously honk the horn. However, Gilbert decided to let it rip instead, as if in protest of my invitation. A sign, perhaps. Or maybe a gassy indication that I shouldn’t try to save money by filling his tank with regular. At any rate, Bob flashed his pearly whites, combed his left hand through his Osama-Bin-Laden-minus-the-turban hair without getting the freakishly long thumb stuck, and started strolling toward us. To my surprise, he opened the rear door and plopped into the back seat, as though he were Miss Daisy. I quickly glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror to see if I looked like Morgan Freeman. I didn’t. Off we went.

After a few minutes of silent cruising, I became acutely aware of a malodorous fragrance assaulting my olfactory system and quietly rolled down the window. This apparently bothered Bob, as suggested by the first words he spoke—a polite request to roll up the window. Ever the Good Samaritan, I reluctantly obliged, deferring to the ninth beatitude:  Blessed are the Smelly. Or at least, so I thought at the time.

A couple of miles later, Bob made yet another request—this time to tune the radio to 93.1 FM. In spite of the fact that Bob was starting to seem a little high maintenance, I granted his wish. Within seconds, another sensory assault bore down upon me as the radio blared country music. Gross. I tried to distract my ears by engaging Bob in conversation, but all he wanted to talk about was sauerkraut. Of all things. Apparently, Bob’s family was “in the business”.  Whatever the hell that meant. My desire for adventure and eventual canonization was starting to wane.

Luckily, Bob didn’t want to go very far. After a little while, he asked me to pull over to drop him off at the local bowling alley. I didn’t make any inquiries. I just did as he asked, and then sped away toward the nearest car wash, wondering if they’d have an air freshener strong enough to battle the putrid aroma that Bob had left behind. Needless to say, that would be the first and last time I ever pick up a hitchhiker…assuming that Bob was actually a real hitchhiker.

So much for adventure.

Road Warrior/Hamster

Back to the daily grind. Back to being a road warrior. Though today I don’t really feel like a road warrior. It’s more like a hamster on a wheel. Previously I referred to life in transit as a “brilliant adventure”—at least in the metaphorical sense of the phrase. Well, I could certainly use a little adventure in my life as of late. The monotony of this back and forth everyday is absolutely stifling. I think it’s time to shift gears. Maybe today on the way home I’ll pick up a hitchhiker. Stay tuned.