Car Stereotypes 6

MINIVAN

When you were 9 years old and discovered that your baby face had faded and that no one would change your diaper anymore, you figured the next best option was to have a kid of your own to quickly launch your vicarious life. Eventually, you landed some sperm or a womb (gender respective) and got this vehicle during your yearlong baby-shower tour (where being a friend or family was not as important as if they were willing to bring gifts). You pray frequently that the kid will age slowly and continue to love you unconditionally, in spite of how much of an immature schmuck you are. Meanwhile, you bought all the stereotypical mommy and daddy crap you can get your insecure hands on so that everyone that reads, “baby on board” will hopefully see you (not the child) and think, oh, isn’t that precious. Ironically, you only have one child to fill up the other seven seats in your ride, because your idealized version of carpooling the other neighborhood brats didn’t work out so well, since the other parents make excuses to stay distant because they’re frankly terrified of the neurotic influence you would have on their children. Fortunately, your minivan does serve nicely as supplemental storage to house the mountain of toys and crayons and super achiever learner crap you constantly shower your spoiled bastard of a child with, because you have an even bigger mountain of shit piled up in your home. And, unfortunately, your son still seems super infatuated with Barney and that allegedly gay Teletubby, even though he just turned 12. You were also flattered to learn they had just invented a whole new term to describe you – “helicopter parent.” As proof, you own a couple t-shirts you frequently wear to school. To the teacher’s and other community member’s chagrin, you count yourself as a valuable member of your child’s “learning team,” even though you have been asked with some legal overtones to stop sitting in class with your child whom you still address publicly as Honey Poop. You also demand with lawyerly overtones that your child’s teachers, counselor, therapist, and pastor send you hourly updates to your email address honeypoopsmommy@_____.com.

**Disclaimer – this minivan stereotype seems particularly vicious, so if it helps, insert daddy in the email address instead.

JEEP WRANGLER

Dudes - After you brought the car home, put on your vanity plates and thematic tire cover, the buzz immediately wore off. It was just then you started to realize how badly this car sucks. You still drive it frequently to fraternity social events, because the other guys seem to think it will score the babes, but you secretly have become addicted to Aleve, since the ride is just so damn rough. You have taken it off-roading at the request of friends who didn’t know any better. Consequently, you all ended up too drunk to drive by the time the tow truck showed up to pull you off the rock you got stuck on.

Chicks – You’ve never met a beer pong table you didn’t like. You have a hard time reconciling your poor conditioning due to beer intake with your ultimate goal of participating in (but not necessarily winning) the wet t-shirt contest during this year’s spring break festivities. You haven’t gotten to the point of worrying that one day those pictures of you on the Internet just might bite you in the ass. You love to take the top off the jeep and yourself and would do so simultaneously if it weren’t so darn difficult to keep your hair out of your face while driving. However, your favorite joke is to get a dude in the jeep and try to trip him up on which top you’re offering to take off (and of course you ultimately mean your shirt). You’re hoping to score the right guy with a respectable trust fund and graduate early with a solid enough GPA (gifted with penis average) to earn your m.r.s. degree.

OLDSMOBUICK

Either the car has been in the family for a long time, or you got a pretty good deal on this boat from an old guy that finally broke down and bought his dream Caddy, which he’ll put 200 miles on a year, mostly traveling back and forth to the service shop hoping for another squeak to emerge that he can get fixed and therefore have some company. However, this car you have recently scored from the old dude is not so good on gas mileage, but peels out of a parking lot really well, even if it doesn’t actually physically fit in said parking lot. There’s no disguising it as anything else, so you embrace the classic hoopty look by tossing on some dashboard ornaments, getting some fresh rims, and perhaps saving money for the hydraulic package to make it go up and down. You actually calculate gas mileage by the block, rather than mile, and when a friend asks you to drive somewhere, you bitch nonstop about the price of fuel until they agree to pay for your share of the Taco Bell. The kids in the pimped neon’s are constantly trying to hustle you into racing them, and although you have no idea what you’re doing besides jamming your foot on the gas, you always seem to win. Afterwards, they beg you to go score them some beer, and let them hang out at your place to play X-Box.