Thursday, September 30, 2004

The Bony Finger of Death: Now With Leather Interior

When I pulled into the parking lot at work yesterday, I parked opposite a black P.T. Cruiser. There was a silver skull protruding several inches from the license plate.

Skeletor's car, perhaps.

On the back window was a skull and bones decal. There were coffin decals on the sides.
At this point, the most likely owner shifted from Skeletor to Herman Munster, although he was too big to fit into the car and I thought he was still playing professional baseball in Venezuela.

With the dearth of high Q-rating suspects, my attention shifted toward Goths.

For our international readers, 'Goths' are a teen sub-culture in this country. It's hard to define a Goth really, it's really a bad mood more than a culture. They dress in black, wear extreme makeup and hair styles, and always look like it's Halloween night. Often, Goths claim to be unique, but it's really just regular teen angst dressed in black.

Goths are also philosophically depressed. I think this is conceptually the incorrect choice in a world where the Marx Brothers, Monty Python, and The Three Stooges are readily available on video, but hey, it's someone else's bitter trip, not mine, and they can drive as far as they want.

One other suspect just came to mind. A professional wrestler of some renown known as 'The Undertaker' (believe it or not) lives in Austin, and I've even seen him in the gaming store in that parking lot. What does he look like? Tattoos. Lots of Tattoos.

So whether it was a Goth or The Undertaker, he was trying to make a statement. I'm just not sure it was the statement he thought he was making.

I know the P.T. Cruiser looks cool. And I would agree that there's a vague kind of hearse effect when the vehicle is black. So I guess you could argue that the Cruiser can be kind of menacing. What's not menacing is that fact that every woman over fifty is driving one. The lady at the dry cleaners is in her late fifties and she has a red one.

The turbo. Take that, bitches.

Every time I'm driving in town, I see them. Blue hairs, proudly driving their P.T. Cruisers. I don't blame them for being proud--the car looks good on them. They look happy. I'm happy for them.

So if Driver Death ever pulls up to a stoplight and another P.T. Cruiser pulls up beside him, the bad-ass-mobile is likely to have a sixty-plus blue haired granny driving, with crocheted pillows in the back window, framed pictures of her grandchildren swinging from the rearview mirror, and a Chihuahua named Sparky standing on her lap.

Kick ass.

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