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. If you can’t ride a motorcycle, you want everyone to know you would ride one.
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.”