Car Stereotypes 5

HYBRID / MINI-COOPER / MINI-WHATEVER

Until my recent post you folks hadn’t heard of the worms that eat newspaper, but you’re pretty curious and want to know if you can put one in your servant’s quarters. You do draw the line at having a compost pile, because you’ve heard it smells and you’re worried your peers may confuse the verbiage with something communist. After all, you have connections to “important” people and they are well aware that you own this vehicle, because you insert this little dose of political correctness into every conversation, memo, and editorial. You have run or inquired about running for political office at some level. You didn’t flinch when you paid the same for this car as your fellow committee member did for the Caddy, because money is no object. And although you’ve made an assload of money from your investments in big oil, you are personally doing your part to offset global warming one trip at a time to the gourmet coffee shop and Mano Swartz. You nearly had a stroke when you made the mistake of showing the car off to your redneck son-in-law who immediately tried to pick it up (metal audibly groaning) while singing the jingle “Fat Guy in a Little Coat” from the movie Tommy Boy. He then mercilessly launched into a series of jokes about how you wear your car instead of drive it. Meanwhile, God help you if you have an unpleasant encounter with one of those octogenarian Caddy owners, because after impact, your econo-box will look like a discarded can of Budweiser. And, as the paramedics strap you and your car to the stretcher, the octogenarian will absent-mindedly inquire about your insurance, while demanding AAA send someone out to assess the squeak he hears coming the vicinity of his unscratched bumper.

MID TO FULL SIZE IMPORT SEDANS

Pending the age of your car, and the gadgets you put in it, you’re pretty practical about just getting a car that functions. The car looks or at least at one time looked decent, but it doesn’t stroke your ego. And, you have learned to develop thick skin from your grandfather sarcastically asking you, “Hey boy, you own a Ford or a Chevy?” You do feel a twinge of guilt for not buying domestic, but you figure that if the American car companies had really wanted you to buy from them, they would have built cars that didn’t suck.

PIMPED OUT SMALL IMPORT OR WANNABE IMPORT

You think the movie “Fast and the Furious” was just so badass, that you quit high school to save cash from your part time job at Pizza Hut to pimp your ride. (Or, you were able to kick it up a notch because mommy and daddy bought you that bitchin Civic). Since then you’ve launched a promising career at a gas station, doing minor repairs and oil changes in order to squirrel away a few bucks. Never mind that you drive a Dodge Neon. You boldly piss away piles of money on that pair of mega-mufflers, some fresh flame decals, a fin on the trunk, and plastic wrap tinted windows (that has unfortunately sprouted some unsightly bubbles). This is your version of not being marvelous and instead looking marvelous. You bought something for your car recently that included the word “kit” in the label. You’re fairly sure that when you finally get all the gadgets in place, up to and including your little Luke Perry sideburns and cookie duster, you’ll be running the honeys in and out of your ride like a revolving door. For now, your only company is your little brother and his skater buddies, who really think you’re a peach with that remote control for the stereo you ironically sit right next to. The removable faceplate is kind of nice, even though you lost it once, broke it once and it’s been stolen twice anyway. But the kids are really most interested in the commodore 64 game system that you had installed before you realized that pong wasn’t compatible with your 4 inch television monitor that whacks you in the head every time you lean over toward the empty passenger seat, that you primarily use for storing your extensive hip-hop music collection and the new DVD box-set of Fast and the Furious 1 - 5. You feel particularly confident about yourself when your “lid” (meaning backward baseball hat with no curve to the bill) matches your ambiguously gang related t-shirt. You prefer to wear a hoody over your baseball cap, but haven’t quite figured out how to do that really comfortably with your cap on backwards and to the side. Your alternative look is to wear a fancy knitted stocking cap when it’s warm out, and regardless the type of hat, you are obsessive about continually pulling it low over your eyebrows for the perfect Vanilla Ice look. You’re debating on weather to spend your next paycheck on gas, or new wheels for your skateboard. You think your parents are prudes for bitching at you for your choice of wardrobe, lack of priorities, and curiously awkward urban accent that has no resemblance to the kid they knew 2 years ago that used to talk like the suburban white kid you are. When they really put the heat on, you angrily toss aside your PS2 controller and stomp to your bedroom, of the home you still live in with them, gripping the belt of your pants to keep them from dropping the remainder of the way to the floor.