(post copyright 2014, Dawn Weber)
Hippy. Soccer mom. Redneck. Entitled a-hole. Really small penis.
Don't mind me. I'm just heading down the interstate, judging people based on the cars they drive. I have plenty of time for this. My commute to the office is, on a good day, one hour each way. I've worked at the same job for, oh, nine years/108 months/3,285 days. But who's counting?
Point is, I spend a lot of time in my car. There's lots of places I'd rather be. Bed comes to mind. Hell - prison comes to mind. But I must go to work. You know, to be able to afford gas and a car. So I can go to work.
Great. Now I'm depressed. I had a point here. What was it? Oh yeah. Judging people based on their material possessions. I feel better.
Anyway, over these nine years/108 months/3,285-but-who's-counting-days, I've noticed some reoccurring characteristics amongst my fellow drivers. You know, I don't like to stereotype. So let me just throw down some broad, baseless generalizations. Read on.
Economy/electric car: "Co-exist!" "Recycle!" "Change!" You're a bumper sticker billboard, maxed out in the right lane at a puttering, earth-friendly 60 m.p.h. You've likely been to a pride parade, and you're all about equal rights, world peace, legalized pot. You voted for Obama. One of your bumper stickers indicates this, but you don't need it.
Minivan: You're on the way to school and/or practice in a vehicle full of car seats and petrified french fries. You're exhausted, crabby, and flailing an arm around in the back seat, hoping to make contact with one of your wayward offspring. You gave up form for function long ago, and sold your soul for a built-in DVD player and a third-row seat. You used to be cool. But now?
You're too tired to care.
SUV - You are also on the way to school and/or practice in a vessel full of car seats and petrified french fries, though you'd very much like us to believe otherwise, what with your off-road package and four-wheel drive - features you've never used.
SUVs: At least they aren't minivans.
Pickup truck - Gun rack, tool box, probable concealed weapon . . . you're ready for anything, up to and including the zombie apocalypse. You get 15 m.p.g. highway, but petty things like gas mileage and pollution do not concern you: Global warming is just a big conspiracy started by that liberal who invented the internet. You did NOT vote for Obama. Your bumper sticker indicates this, but you don't need it.
Sedan - Sure, your Accord/Camry/Chevy Cobalt is non-descript and boring, but you don't care. You don't care about anything, really, except getting from point A to point B, albeit with premium cup-holders and functioning airbags. You're a regular guy, just trying to get by, driving at a sensible speed in your sensible car, with your sensible shoes to your sensible . . .
Sports car/convertible - You. You're zipping in and out of lanes at 85 m.p.h., tailgating, swerving, driving with one hand and texting with the other. You're passing on the right, cutting off on the left . . . but you can do what you want, right? You've earned it - you're a wealthy, middle-aged white person.
With a really small penis.
So we see here that just by looking around on the freeway, we can tell what kind of people we're dealing with, judge them accordingly, and really give them a piece of our . . .
Crap. Wait a minute.
Reading through this, I just realized that for one reason or another, our family of three licensed drivers owns five vehicles. Do not be jealous of this; they're all about ten years old with over 100,000 miles.
But there's no getting around it. On any given day, depending on the weather, which vehicle is in the shop (and one is always in the shop), or what I'm doing after work, you could find me driving: an economy car, a pickup truck, a sedan, an SUV, or a convertible.
Which of course - go ahead, say it - makes me a hippy/redneck/boring soccer mom/entitled a-hole.
With a really small penis.
Well, hey. What can I say? If the cars fit.
And at least they aren't minivans.