Mr Cool

To the driver of the car I observed on the highway last night:

Let me guess–you have a wife, maybe a couple of children, but when you went shopping for a new family vehicle and you contemplated purchasing a minivan, something within you screamed, “No!  That’s way too domestic!”  You’re a rebel, right?  You were born to be wild, or something like that.  You felt the primal voice within rage against something so bulky and common and uncool as a minivan.  And so, to silence that voice, you looked elsewhere.

I know, you still wanted to be hip, to be young, to drive something gruff and manly which recalled wilderness days of the hunter-gatherer lives of men.  I understand completely.  You’re a stallion, man, and not even a family can tame you down.

But, my friend–and I hate to break this to you, truly I do–I have to say that no amount of Vols, Harley-Davidson, or “Fear This!” stickers, and no, not even the flames painted along her panels, will ever bestow upon your PT Cruiser the title of “cool.”