Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

You Are What You Drive

By Bob Wire, 4-25-08

	This is the car that singlehandedly killed Plymouth. Seriously.

If you are what you drive, the Chevy Caprice is the John Wayne Gacy of the modern era.

Why is it that every serial killer I’ve ever known has driven a 1971 Chevy Caprice? Seasick green, with one rear window that won’t roll down. It’s uncanny. One was a convertible, that rear window looking like a shark fin as the killer rolled along a two-lane blacktop, looking for a place to dump a body.

The early-70’s Caprice is one of the most unassuming cars ever, virtually invisible to law enforcement as it moves among us in traffic, carrying menace behind the wheel and 400 cubic inches of mayhem under that rusting hood. It is probably this anonymity, and the spacious trunk (plenty of room for trash bags, a chainsaw, shovels and Soul Hole magazines) that suits the needs of your average serial killer.

(If you’re reading this and you drive a green ’71 Chevy Caprice, I mean no offense. If you still need to speak to me about this, you can find my address in the phone book under ‘John Floridis.’)

Another common stereotype of car and driver is lesbians and Subarus. If that’s true, then approximately half the people in Missoula prefer women of their own sex. Hell, my wife drives a Subaru. Actually, it makes sense to me that she’s a lesbian, because there’s no other explanation for her refusing my constant amorous advances. Especially in the cereal aisle at Albertson’s.

If you ever notice the way I dress, you’d probably understand that I tend to choose function over style. I find most fashion trends kind of silly and unflattering, but that doesn’t occupy a whole lot of my thinking. I just want to be comfortable. The only reason I’m not working in an ad agency is that Brooks Brothers doesn’t make a three-piece suit out of sweatpants material.

I drive an SUV, the vehicular equivalent of jeans and a t-shirt. It’s not an Escalade, not a Hummer. It’s a plain-Jane mid-size model, no fancy wheels or thousand-watt stereo. It gets me and my stuff from A to B. My previous rig was an Isuzu Trooper, the most squared-off vehicle this side of a mail truck. Blunt. Like me. I don’t need the frivolity offered by a Denali, a Yukon, or some other glorified Blazer. I need to carry mounds of dirt, wet snowboards, five kids, a lawnmower, a puking dog, guitar amps, thousands of smashed PBR cans, and eight-foot fence boards. Sometimes all in the same trip (boy was that an interesting day).

This is Montana, baby, and we NEED our standard-issue SUV’s. I’m sure there are a lot of no-bullshit people out there who drive them out of necessity, not status or fashion. You won’t see an Escalade in line at the dump.

Here’s another one: the Plymouth Neon. If you see one that is NOT being driven by a 17-year-old blonde airhead with a cell phone glued to her cheek, then she’s in the trunk. The guy at the wheel is a serial killer on his way to the salvage yard to look for parts for his Caprice. And to dump a body.

Why do so many of these automotive stereotypes hold true? Well, let’s break down the word “stereotype.” You got “stereo,” from the Greek “panasonic,” meaning “two small black haired women with bushy eyebrows and gripping a dead rooster, yelling into each ear of a rich shipping magnate.” And “type,” from the Native American “tipi,” meaning “tall portable shelter in which one cannot sit in the corner.”

Well, I don’t get it. But I do know that if you see a guy climbing out of a bright red Corvette or a brand new Mustang, you can be sure that he’s packing a johnson the size of your thumb. That guy with the goatee and the $200 Oakleys rumbling along in the giant Chevy Silverado 4X4 with the 36” tires? Hung like a pimple, but lives in the country. The dude driving the gleaming new Land Rover? Lives in Mansion Heights, sells real estate, and his purple-helmeted warrior stopped growing in the second grade.

And then you have the vehicle driven by Real People, those with no pretensions, no ambitions, and are still waiting for their first lucky break in life. They’re the ones who actually buy the supermarket tabloids. These people live in aging mobile homes or squalid rentals within a block of the railroad tracks. Their kids run around the trailer park wearing a loaded diaper and a shirt fashioned out of mud. They vote Republican because they don’t know any better (not all Republicans are stupid, but most stupid people vote Republican), and have fewer teeth than a restraining order.

They all drive a green 1991 Dodge minivan. It hasn’t been washed since it left the showroom floor, and puts more smoke in the air than a Widespread Panic concert at Arrowhead Stadium.

Hell, everybody’s got to drive something. Are all Prius drivers pious? I don’t know. But that halo must be distracting at night. Is everyone who owns a Ford F-150 a wife-beater? Only if it’s pre-1990. What’s that new Lexus in the handicap parking space at the casino tell you? Big fat slip-and-fall settlement from Walgreen’s. New VW Beetle? Aging hippie chick who invested right and cheats on her husband. Toyota Camry? Boring dude who wears boxer AND briefs. Schwann’s refrigerated truck? A guy who sells frozen food.

See? It’s easy. And you know how I know I’m right? Einstein rode a bike.

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By Bob Wire, 4-25-08 | comments (17) | email story | print story