Maniacal Ventures

I hate PT Cruisers

Walking out to my car this morning, the brief screech of a vehicle making a too-fast turn caught my attention and I witnessed an all black PT Cruiser (sporting chromesque trim and dark tinted windows) taking the corner in front of my house on its way, perhaps, to drop the Team Captain of the Cobra Kai off at early soccer practice. I ask you: really? Who besides the Antichrist’s mother would buy a PT Cruiser in Hearse Black, get the windows tinted super dark and then speed around like they were in some kind of diazepam-sponsored urban rally?

I hate PT Cruisers, by the way.

I once sat in a PT Cruiser. It happened while I was out shopping for a late model whatever-the-hell-I-could-get-financed. I was at the local Kia dealer being circled by desperate, pin-striped vultures when I was attacked by a clipboard wielding salesman and forced into a small cubicle that smelled of Axe body spray and burnt coffee. I was handed a questionnaire which was so personal and in depth it should have immediately qualified me to be an OT Level III Scientologist, at the very least.

Waiting for my result was very much like waiting at the free clinic for VD results, sans the burning, itchy rash and rank, drippy emissions. Was he going to walk me over to a nice Kia? Would he shuffle me over to some of the used vehicles? Scream at me and tell me to get off the lot? No. He walked me, sadly shaking his mousse-y, hair-helmeted head, directly to a PT Cruiser. I do not kid even slightly when I tell you that my response to ‘What are you looking for’ was ‘A sedan if I can but not an SUV and most certainly not a PT Cruiser.’ I am not exaggerating this. I actually told him no PT Cruisers. I think I may have faked a shudder of contempt when I said it. So of course, after looking at my completely blank credit history, he walked me straight to one in the hopes of scaring me off the lot without having to subdue me with the one-two punch of a spray of Axe to the face and a skull shattering bouffant-butt.

So he walked me over to the poor man’s Prowler. The kind of car a guy buys when he can’t even afford a beat up, late 70s Mustang. The kind of vehicle that certain ‘Soccer Moms’ drive when they aren’t giving their mentally abused husbands fresh bruises. The kind of vehicle that screams douche louder than a Honda Civic covered in after-market stickers, a badly spot-welded roll bar and two exhaust pipes the size of coffee cans.

I didn’t like it.

The interior wasn’t too bad if you don’t mind feeling like you’re sitting on a booster seat in something designed by Ed ‘Big Daddy’ Roth and Ed ‘Little Mommy’ Wood after they shared a rag full of ether. The car as a whole, though, was definitely not what I wanted, especially since I vomited a little when I got in it and it took two days for my testicles to descend out of their safe little hidey-hole behind my pancreas after I got back out of it.

The PT is a novelty car. As for safety and crashes, it fails more tests than a tequila soaked frat boy. There’s the kind of problems with wobble you only get by reusing chopped Neon frames. The performance you would expect in something designed for form instead of function. It even gets crummy gas mileage. The only – and I mean the only – thing it has going for it is that it looks a little retro, but only in the way that wearing a long, plaid skirt makes you look a little bit Scottish. Plus, I always expect to see a group of angry clowns wearing tracksuits and too much makeup pouring out of them when I see them stop at a light.

I’m waiting for the day when I see the precursor to End Times, those Fluffers of the Apocalypse, driving down the road in their Mary Kay Pink vehicles: Vanity, in its gaudy PT Cruiser, applying mascara, text messaging, reading the paper and trimming Its goatee; Greed, running down old women in a blinged up Hummer; Ignorance, tooling down the sidewalk in reverse in a fuscia Explorer, blinded by windows covered in Jesus fish and McCain/Palin bumper stickers; and Hypocrisy, in a pastel Prius, puffing a clove cigarette, listening to whale song and riding down the homeless to get a better spot near the Starbucks.

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