Disney's "Cars" Responsible for Untold Deaths (Possibly 0)

Goddam it, Cars, stop teaching our kids that it is safe to guzzle things like engine coolant, "mouth watering" motor oil, and antifreeze.¹

Those kind of drinks are only for responsible mommy and daddy cars over 50,000 miles.






¹ Incidentally, antifreeze used to be clear and used to be removed from cars seasonally before it was discovered to double as an agent to also raise the evaporation point of gasoline during warmer months. Originally it would be drained in Spring and left in mason jars in many garages. Understandably, this led to several deaths each Summer, as overheated mechanics and their acquaintances mistook these bottles for jars of
   To this end, scientists dyed antifreeze a terribly unappetizing neon-green color. They later petitioned Gatorade to change it's color to avoid a resurgence of confusion, to which Gatorade politely told the nerds to shove it. Antifreeze was then dyed an icy blue. Gatorade really, really hates scientists.

Have Low Standards

"Too sexy for this car," you say?

I must be inclined to agree with you, miss—and I say miss because you are driving an ivory white Chrystler PT Cruiser with Floridian license plates.

The PT Cruiser is the most disgusting, hideous, moronic, least inspiring, rage-inducing piece of garbage aesthetic design debacle since Herbert Powell-Simpson allowed his half-brother to design The Homer.






So yes, dear, I will agree that you are too sexy for that car.

Honey Booboo's fat, ugly, human refuse personification of bad decisions mother is too sexy for a PT Cruiser.

Actually, I'm pretty sure she is half PT Cruiser and that explains a lot, actually.

On the Noble Hemi

I am precisely the type of person you want to run into about a week into the zombie apocalypse.


I'm a MacGuyver. I can make any couple of things do a third thing. I can reverse engineer simple mechanisms, maintain household fixtures…basically keep working things running and make minor repairs. I can not, however repair, say, a car.

Oh, sure, I can change a fuse or a tire, jump start a dead battery, but real engine care? Oil changes? Knowing which parts other than a belt move or get hot or might chop my hand off? Not so much.

But I know one thing: I know how an internal combustion engine functions.

A small amount of gas "primes" the chamber, and is ignited by the spark plug, which explodes the gas and causes it to expand with force, creating mechanical energy via the piston while simultaneously priming the next stroke of the engine. Repeat a whole lot really fast and boom: car. Certain pistons are made with a hemispherical head, rather than a flat one, as the sphere is the shape with maximum surface area for minimum volume. A "hemi" allows for more chemical reaction per square inch, and thus better fuel and energy efficiency.

So why the hell do I see coffee table books for hemi muscle cars? I flipped through; there weren't any photos of engines. No exploded views of steel parts, no apparati. They might as well call it "Pictures of Pretty Chassis."

Technically, it'd be bodies, not chassis, but the point is I shouldn't be able to have a correct opinion about automotive anything.

Leading Questions Better Left Unasked: Honda

I saw a commercial for the Honda Civic tonight. Twice. It showed a Toyota dealer talking up all the buttons in a Toyota, although none of them were an analogue to Honda's apparently proprietary "Econ" button.

Just switch it on and save on gas mileage.





What?

You mean there's a button on my car, and if I press it it will save me money on gas.

You assholes. Why would you even make that a button? Why not make it a default part of the car? If I can have my car automatically adjust its performance to improve energy efficiency, wouldn't I want that on always?

Is this like "OverDrive" again? Is it just another thing no one has any comprehension of and should just leave on constantly? Is there, like, that one strange scenario where I need to tow a raft full of orphaned Boy Scouts and three-legged puppies to safety before they tumble over the side of a sheer cliff face where I should turn that feature off? Because I really can't imagine a situation where I would want more inefficient gas mileage.

Is that the trick? I have to know how and when to switch the button on? And if I screw it up, I'm really not getting the most out of my car, am I?

But then again, we couldn't give the job of making that decision over to the car's computer, could we? Not and risk the inevitable outcome of Judgement Day.

The Honda Civic: because fuck Skynet.

Photoshop Disasters: Badvertising

This is a car magazine. You will notice two things:

Secondarily, the girl does not fit on the hood of that car. Not unless she is a giant with a spine that is not constrained to three special dimensions or is otherwise elongated in such a way as to appear normal from this perspective but would for the side appear diagonally and bulbous.

More importantly, you would notice a sexy woman on the cover of this auto publication.

Why is she even there? Aren't gear heads supposed to already get a woody from photos of a vintage Woodie? Why implement the sex factor at all?

Because cars are boring, even to car nerds.

Do you know what's on the cover of Star Wars Insider? Star Wars characters. They almost never use bikini princess Leia. Because nerds nerd-out over over what they're into. They don't need assurance that they're manly and virile, mostly because they observantly doubt that.

Here's the simple equation:

If there's an attractive person on the cover, there's nothing in the magazine worth paying for.

On Meeting My Perfect Woman

I met my perfect woman the other day, and–from the back, at least– she looks fantastic.

• First off, she drives an Outback. Clearly, this is a woman who is more than comfortable taking what she can get. That's definitely in my favor.

• Beavis and Butthead bumper stickers.

• Next, zombie family/pet decals in the window, "Warning: Zombies Ahead," and "Support Zombies" bumper stickers. Great taste in villains: mass panic, lemmings, consumerism, mankind as a whole; none of this evil machine garbage.

• "Guns don't kill people. People with mustaches kill people" sticker says "I remember The Simpsons making fun of Death Wish, but am too young to actually remember Death Wish. Also, it makes my own 'stache appear dangerous.

• Pink Hello Kitty window decal says "I'm still a girl, despite all my other vehicular accoutrements."

• There's a large, half-drunk Snapple classic in the trunk of that hatchback.

 I may be in love.

Stop Snapping Photos While Driving

After a trying day at work, I ended up following this car home for dinner.

I actually just clawed my way out of the basement, after a harrowing nightmare of bladed topiary equipment, sadistic, maniacal death traps, and basement-dwelling grandparents without any teeth.

So, yeah, I'm going to to go file a police report or something. Enjoy looking for this guy around town.

Fun with Jesus Fish

I'm always shocked when people unironically have the Jesus fish decal on their automobiles. They have to be aware of the pop-cultural identity of the fish, so long as the car looks like it belongs to someone under the age of 50. And that implies a knowledge of the Darwin fish and all the other permutations, possibly including the Dead Darwin fish, the Darwin-Eating FAITH Fish, and maybe even the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Still, it seems I live by someone who either enjoyed a wave of '90s nostalgia or completely missed the boat the first time around. Or, they're just really, really Christian.

Although, something's not quite right with this.

Muuuuch better.

Call Me GENERAL Lando

Driving behind a car with the license plate "HOME 1" tonight caused me the desire to pull up next to it, motion to roll down his windows, and shout that I—in my tiny grandma-gold Corolla—am Gold Leader, and that I am "going to start my attack run."
After that I drove directly into the heart of a 280 kilometer wide technological monstrosity of space station.
At which point I wondered why I of all people don't have at least the audio of Star Wars synced onto my iPhone already.

License Plate Ninjas

Been seeing some rather choice pieces of vehicular graphical expression, lately.

They sure do. Well, except the ones that do it in the park with children watching.

I can definitely back this. 

EWW! Gross!

Alright, this one takes some explaining. ENHANCE!

I wish she had been more attractive, but considering she was in line at the McDonald's drive-thru,
it could have been worse. Still, she could always have a promising career at a female domination-based
phone sex operation.

On Vehicular Robocide

I almost got run down by a white minivan today. It nearly didn't obey a stop sign and I would have gotten smashed trying to make my left after actually stopping for my own sign.

But you know what? Not mad.

Because this dinky white minivan was wearing the Autobot logo emblazoned on his hood.

Roll out, brobot.

On Parenting

Yikes, sorry for the massive delay in blogging. I was busy last night and then … forgot.

Gomen nasai.

Man Who Runs Apt Complex Overcompensates for Small Penis

Found this little gem in a plastic wrapped around the door handle yesterday. Apparently, where we live also live a bunch of jerks and one really, really judgemental dude with a tiny penis.

"We have recently upgraded the speed bumps on the main road in order to slow down vehicles that travel down our main drive. It appears that many of you are avoiding the speed bumps by entering through the parking lot on the left side which is a one-way. Also, the parking lot on the south side of the property is not a roadway to get to the lower section of [the property] and should not be used as such."

"Please be advised that anyone caught entering through the one way will be asked to vacate [the property] or at the very least will not be offered a lease renewal."

Here's the part where our manager guy confesses that his genitals leave a tremendous amount to be desired. Please note, this is the second time we've gotten this notice, both times including the following sentence:

"I have driven over the speed bumps in a 2004 Corvette, which has one of the lowest clearances of any car, and had no problem."

Amazing. We get it. You have a small dick. Do you really need to inform 250 apartments of this? I mean, I suppose that statistically speaking there might be someone in that group who has that as their turn-on. Possibly. Maybe.

Honestly, I love the effort. You want to save children from getting flattened. This is admirable. And sure, you want to express that you have personal experience dissuading the chief arguments against your proposal's enforcement.

But you just want us to know you own a 2004 Corvette.

And that means you are very, very worried about the size of your dick.

On A Dirty Mind

Just saw an ad for a big local car dealership, Curry Honda. Frankly, no one around here very much likes Curry, ever since they swept in and bought out Geiss Automall, which had been around for half a century. My great-grandfather bought from Mr. Geiss. My grandparents and parents both bought from his son. Then Curry came along, bought out the name and fired most of the good mechanics and staff, replacing them with unscrupulous bastards. They are now pretty much the only game in town now, for everything from Dodge to Nissan.

Anyway, in this commercial the figurehead of Curry Honda explains that they've one their 13th President's Award for excellence or some other such intangible quality. Here's last year's version:



Does anyone else notice something suspicious going on with that award logo? Let's look closer:

I know that looks like something, I just can't place it yet. I know I've seen it somewhere before, and I know I feel vaguely uncomfortable around it. Where oh where could I have seen something like this?

What? Really? I don't think–

Well, I guess, but–

… Alright, brain, you win this round.

On Short-Term Memory

I've been planning this post for a couple days now, which makes this story all the funnier, right now.

Stopped by the local mall last night to meet some friends for a lazy dinner and, on the way out, Dean couldn't find his car. Seriously, he tried about 5 cars before he, completely sober, found the right dark gray sedan. Add in the fact that there were only about 18 cars in the first four lanes of the parking lot just makes it worse.

That said, I've been trying to come up with some vanity license plates which would be useful in case you too have a car that looks like a dozen other cars. (Though why you can't remember your own license plate is a tough question in the first place.)

• THIS ONE
  
• MINE
  
• I'm sure that last one has been used in most states so let's try MN NT URS
  
• U FND ME
  
• YES ME
  
• GET IN ME

On License Plates

When I was 14, I imagined that whatever car I got when I was old enough–likely a "shaggin' wagon," but without all the sex and more of the awesome toys–would have a custom license plate which I could easily remember. Specifically, "R2D2-C3PO." I was a nerd.

But the last year or so I've been noticing that a lot of other people on the road were much bigger nerds than even I was, because they went ahead and got their dorky custom plates done. I know a kid from high school who got "ROADHEAD" branded across the front and back of his car. I saw one plate last weekend that read "TIME2RUN." … No it's not. Actually, if you're in your car, that's the one time it should be impossible for you to run. That's just what it means to drive a car. What's wrong with you? Maybe a week before that I saw a swanky Mercedes where the license plate said "FRESHH," though with tinted windows and my position to the rear, I was unable to verify the potential status of any dice in the mirror. However, since there was that extra H at the end, I feel that it is safe to assume "FRESH" was already taken and thus this car was was anything but rare.

Here's a few more gems.

Okay. So, you're a nanny. In real life. Truthfully, I'm not sure if you're trying to allude to being British and an insanely talented child care expert, or if you modeled your adult life after Fran Drescher's early-ninties sitcom. Were you working at a bridal shop in Flushing, Queens until your boyfriend kicked you out in one of those crushing scenes? Did you then attempt to sell makeup door-to-door in ritzy neighborhoods and pass yourself off as an agent nanny to the single, wealthy widow father with no other option? Did the house mysteriously reverse its layout after the first day and then did you get married to the man after only five years of pussyfooting around the issue? You're driving a Mazda, so I'm guessing the first one.

Here's a winner. Again, I am left with two, maybe three possibilities as to the owner's life. Possibility the first: You are very sure of yourself, like yourself, in fact you have great self esteem. You also speak Spanish as your primary language. Possibility the second: You are exactly what I said above, but you are not Spanish. You are in fact a native English speaker, however you are so happy and contented by your life that when the DMV told you "MAGNIFICENT" was two letters too long and all permitted variations were taken, you sad, "That's fine!" and took what they could give you. Option the third: You are a magician.

Alright, technically this is yet another bumper sticker, which I have expounded upon at length, but I really just don't know what this is. I think it's a wildcat, but there are a lot of different connotations to what kind it is. Tail's too long to be an ocelot of bobcat, so if it's for a third-party democratic political system, they're maybe mountain lions? I guess that'd be some constituency out in the Rockies. I found it in New York, though, so it might be from Appalachia. Have hillbillies discovered sticker printing yet? Maybe it's just suggestive of a strong, third option to the donkeys and elephants, a new possibility for a new age. Maybe it's not for anything particular, but rather a call to break party lines and try something new. Or it's a house cat.
Crazy Cat Lady/Mr. Fluffles 2012!

Also note the "1," implying there was already someone with
an "El Che" license plate in New York. Ah, comodificatio

Oh yes, I'm sure that becoming a vanity plate on some douchebag's Xterra was exactly what Ernesto Guevara had in mind when the Bolivians set him on his knees and shot him in the head, defiantly screaming "Shoot, coward! You are only going to kill a man!" Yes, and no, putting a communist revolutionary's name on your $28,000 gas guzzling, camo-green SUV–which by the way is made in Brasil, just 1,000 miles from where he was executed–is totally rad idea. I'm sure he would have really appreciated the irony. It's not like his head on a million mass produced t-shirts is already too much of a burden. I'm pretty sure if you dug down into his grave, you'd find him spinning so fast you could use him as an electrical superconductor.

And here's my newest find. "LOL FWD." I don't really get it. I'm guessing "LOL WTF" and "LOL FTW" were already taken, but again, never waste a perfectly good wait in line at the DMV. This must be the guy who sends out like 30 emails a day, all of them passed around so many offices so many times that they're filled with 60% indented headers and sparkly, animated signature attachments, so that by the time you finally get down to the original message, which has been gratuitously pumped full of extra line breaks, it's not even worth clicking through the virus scans to get to the poorly photoshopped pictures of kittens being naughty.

That or this guy's just laughing about never driving backwards.


Update! - 2/23/11

Here's a "gem." (So sorry.)

Hypothesis one: somebody really, really thought Jem was truly outrageous.



Hypothesis two: a Jewish diamond merchant is very set on telling letting you know what he does for a living, but might be somewhat conflicted about driving a Volvo.


*Please note, these photos were almost exclusively taken in manners that impeded my natural driving ability, however I'm so good at driving that just meant I drove about as well as the average person. And I mean traffic was pretty much dead, anyway.


Update! - 4/13/11

I was at the doctor's office a while back and noticed this little wonder. "MD 4 Tummy." Sure, you sound like a six year-old or an awkwardly slapped-together crossword puzzle, but in absolute fairness I don't think there's any way to fit "GASTROENTEROLOGIST" on your car's plates. Maybe if you have like three cars. Like strapped to each other. But then I suppose you've got to deal with having license plates that say "GASTRO," "ENTER" and "OLOGIST," and no one really wants to be mistaken for the possible communist dictator of Cuba, a sexually promiscuous individual or a cocky man of infinite accreditation.

 This isn't actually  license plate, but it's just kind of perfect to note here. I actually have a pair of those fuzzy boobs somewhere. I think I got them as a 17th birthday present. Gonna say Dean got them for me. maybe in conjunction with Jay? That sounds like them. And that is, yes, a pair of panties hanging from the rear-view mirror as well.

I actually snapped this photo sitting in  Burger King parking lot late one night as Dean scarfed down about a dozen chicken nuggets and I think a Whopper Jr. Since the car was empty, that implies then that the car belonged to someone who works at Burger King. Is anyone surprised that a man who would work at Burger King drives around with a pair of fuzzy boobs and underpants hanging in the windshield of his Acura? I don't think so….

Just … just FAIL? I'm gonna call it an inadvertent fail.

On Snow Drifts

I know I've said it before, but it bares saying again: through sheer repetition of low-grade accidents and bonehead maneuvers, my friends are exactly the kind of guys you want around when something goes wrong.

Last night we went out for a drive to kill some time before appetizers/drink specials kicked in at our local family restaurant. And–obviously–we skidded off the road into a snow drift. Honestly? It wasn't even that bad. We'd all done it before. We knew the powder was soft, so there was no body damage to the car. We knew to call AAA after we failed to immediately rock/push ourselves out. We even knew to "appropriate" a shovel from the yard of a darkened house to help dig ourselves out.

Honestly, the only thing we didn't seem to know was "Let the gorgeous girl driving by help us out when she offers. Maybe her 'friend' up the road is cute too." But even that screw-up didn't throw us off too badly. Within 45 minutes we had ourselves out and back on the road, made it to the restaurant realizing none of our other friends ever showed up, and then ordered some beers and food to fill our deserving stomachs.

Really, all minor disasters should end so well. 75% of Australia's Queensland is a disaster zone right now, but you can bet they're going to throw a hell of a Foster's and BBQ shindig after. Oh my god, I think my friends and I are secretly Australian. I never knew.

On Art

This is a story my father told me, one I only now recollect hearing firsthand.

Years ago, much as this past week, there had been a terrible snow storm. My mother, still getting her master's, rushed out of the house one day to take a test. Driving towards a frighteningly tough contemporary art history essay exam, she happened to drive past a Mercedes, haplessly adrift in a, well, a snow drift.

Suddenly, inspiration struck her. What was once a looming dissertation of unknown topic became an obvious solution. Art is, after all, that which has no intrinsic use to society. Having lost all functionality intended for a mid-sized German coupe, the Mercedes had stopped being a car and become a work of art.

On the Kia Soul

Unapologetically, I love this Kia Souls hamster commercial:



Which is hilarious, because the song seems to imply I could drive a whole bunch of terrible things or I could drive a Kia Soul. But see, as non-utilitarian as it is, I'd probably really enjoy riding around town in a giant toaster. It might not be good in the rain, but I'm pretty sure I could get some fun out of it before throwing up the listing on eBay Autos.

And a cardboard box bus? How is that not something you would love to do with a cute girl? Do it! It's fun has hell and I'm positive she'll think a hell of a lot of you for doing something so ridiculous in public. I've seen less work out very well for men of even mediocre import.

But I get it, I can have things that aren't awesome cars or I can have a Kia Soul.

Honestly? I'd rather take pretty much any other car over a Kia Soul. It's like they purposefully marketed towards pretentious irony whores. Hip-hop? That's a black guy thing. Cute pets? Teen girls. Black guy things and teen girls? Well, it's either some very exploitative porn or it's marketing aimed at rich, suburban white kids. You know, pretentious irony whores.

But I'm getting off-track. The point is the Kia Soul is ugly as hell. In fact, if I were given one as a prize or a gift, I'd try everything in my power to trade it in for its cash equivalent or a car of equal or lesser value. I mean holy hell, Kia doesn't even make terribly ugly cars in general, just, like, that one.

Is pretentiousness really worth looking like an idiot?

Judging by the popularity of Animal Collective, I'm guessing yeah.

On Texas

I was driving to the post office today when I notices one of these gems on the Hyundai in front of me:

Yeah, that's a "Don't mess with Texas" bumper sticker, alright. On a Hyundai. With New York plates. And where was it? "On the bumper?" you suspect? No, it was on the rear windshield.

Alright, let's start at the top, with this.

You are not in Texas. You have not lived in Texas for several years (if ever) judging by your license plates, nor are you driving a vehicle that would be required for any of the tough, pick-up-type activities one normally would associate with a stereotypically Texan lifestyle. Moreover, you aren't even driving an American car. Best case scenario? You are the wife or girlfriend of someone who grew up in Texas. You yourself are not Texan. You aren't even close enough to be trusted with a Ford Fiesta.

You are also retarded. Now I understand that in Texas they execute the retarded, so perhaps this explains why you are not in Texas right now. It would also explain why you chose to affix your bumper sticker to the windshield instead of, say, your bumper, which I noticed was utterly devoid of clutter supporting George W. Bush, the Astros or the forcible removal to reservation space of the young brown man in the car next to you with paw prints and howling wolf window clings covering his vehicle. In point of fact, all of the developmentally challenged people I have met have had the capacity of mind to know that bumper stickers go on your bumper. This leads me to believe that you might actually just be illiterate, and you trusted that nice man at the store when he told you that sticker actually read, "World's Best Momma/Sister."

Man, fuck Texas.

One of my best friends has lived in Texas for years and she says she loves the place, except for all the Mexicans and all the times she complains about there not being anything to do and nowhere to go to do that not-anything. Basically, if Texas weren't where it was and full of people she hated with so far between anything interesting, Texas might be an almost decent place.

Oh, but the guns. The guns, she says. She loves that everybody has guns. Well you know what? Fuck Texas anyway. You heard me. There are only four places in the U.S. people can argue as being the best city in the world. One is Boston, and the rest of us let them have that because we do enjoy going up there from time to time and using their city like a giant outdoor toilet, plus I mean they've got the Red Sox so let's just lay off them for a bit. The three others are states and they get to fight it out: California, New York and Texas.

California? Fuck them. They talk a big game but if you put a Californian in a room with a New Yorker and a Texan, they're going to get real quiet, real fast. Because Californians are pussies.

But Texas has guns. Texas is big and strong and they will shoot you because they know they're the best state ever.

Fuck that. New Yorkers don't all have guns, they will fight you bare-knuckled. If you have a gun. Texans and New Yorkers get into a big fight and the Texans start shooting? New Yorkers will punch them. They will punch Texans and take their guns and use them as clubs to continue beating on Texans because fuck you, that's why.

Texas thinks it can make fun of New York for our delicious bagels and our expensive water bottles. You know what the best food in Texas is? Mexican.

Jesus Christ, if a Texan ever says anything derogatory to you about where you're from, just look him straight in the eye and say, "Oh yeah? Well you used to be Mexico."

Fuck Texas. Texas couldn't even make it as it's own country. It fought for its independence from Mexico and then immediately said, "Please, United States, we want to be a part of youuuuu."

Man, grow up, Texas. Stop trying to act like you weren't the fat kid we let play with the rest of us just because it was either you or Mexico and Mexico's mom doesn't rub crude oil all over herself while sunbathing out in the front yard.

Fuck you, Texas. Go back to Mexico.