Let’s talk cars. I don’t mean cars really, but the way people adorn their cars with their personal “flair.” Bumper stickers and what not.
I am a highly judgmental individual and I find bumper stickers really annoying because I really don’t want to be forced to pigeon-hole someone based on whatever message is flapping around on their car-ass.
Here are my judgments and observations:
- The classic Calvin & Hobbes transparency thing where he’s pissing and looking over his shoulder. 90% are on pickup trucks, 10% are still at the Flying J waiting to be purchased by the truck-driving dickhead. What does that say? I like to piss on things when I’m not supposed to? Well, guess what? You’re never supposed to piss on anything. Only INTO a toilet (or down the shower drain – don’t gasp, you know you do it, it’s reasonable. Unless you’re into that whole golden-shower thing – you’re on your own there.) Why is it always a pickup truck? And why is it that when I pull up next to it, the person driving seems to think I’d be way into him if he flicks his tongue in and out of his “v”-shaped fingers?
- Same as #1 for the Tazmanian Devil. Yosemite Sam, however, is another story. Still driving a pickup, more likely one with a camper shell. And, probably a good 15-20 years older with a graying beard and a Cream Greatest Hits tape in the cassette deck.
- Yosemite Sam leads me to the SUVs adorned with deer heads and flying geese/ducks. And sometimes those fake bullet holes. Hunters. Lots of bright orange gear. COVERED IN THE BLOOD OF INNOCENT ANIMALS. No further explanation necessary.
- Hunters leads me to the W. Dubya. George W. You know. Yep, the people sporting those stickers are the ones who got him where he is today and see nothing wrong with it. I’d take that sticker off your car, quickly, if I were you. You might just get butt-raped at the gas station. Oh wait, you already did.
- Speaking of W, how about the Jesus Fish? Big ones, little ones, some with the weird letters inside. I am so sorry for your ignorance. Have a blessed day.
- The Jesus Fish leads me to the “It’s a child, not a choice” stickers. OK, let’s just put our bonnets back on and let men tell us what to do with our bodies. I know that’s a really rudimentary statement, but back off, bitches. Get back to your Creative Memories scrapbooking project and quilting and making shiny jangly Christmas sweatshirts.
- And, last but not least. DMB. The first time I saw it, I thought, “DUMB?” Really. Does Dave not realize that? Dude, if you held your guitar a little lower (ie: cooler) MAYBE I might consider the idea of listening to your music. And, tell whomever to let go of your balls so you can sing like a real man. As for your fans, don’t forget that Abercrombie is having a sale this week so you can stock up on khakis, flip flops, vintage t-shirts, and puka-shell hemp necklaces.
(Some of you may be thinking, how can this person hate hunters for killing innocent animals while she enjoys and promotes the killing of innocent babies? THAT’S NOT THE POINT. Two different ball games, kids. Don’t get me started.)
And what’s with the crap people hang from their rearview mirrors? Is that garter from your 1987 prom really that special?
- Feathers – you listen to a lot of Heart and you have a secret love for pot, rainbows and unicorns.
- Mardi Gras beads – you like to show your tits. You also claim you like long walks on the beach, are shy and would like to take things slow.
- The multi-faceted crystal ball – you want to get in an accident and spend seventeen hours in surgery having millions of shards of cheap glass removed from your corneas.
- The cross. Oh, the cross. Good thing Jesus is looking out for you on the road when you are on your cell phone screaming at your live-in boyfriend for porking your best friend, and you’re smoking, drinking a big gulp, and jamming the new DMB cd. Or, better yet, you are 43, still living with your mom and plotting how you are going to kill her right after you get home and crack open that new Jenna Jameson DVD.