Gentlemen, start your engines.
It's not much of a race, but I am tempted to expound upon the idiocy of parallels one might imagine between self and automobile, the identification and personification as reflected in chrome and steel, and let's burn some rubber. Vroom, as they say.
There are six, a most unlucky number, and they all seem to find vehicular expression akin to the notion that clothes make the man. And just for clarity, clothes don't make the man, and cars simply make exhaust.
One little two little three little exhaust pipes, a lab tech a lawyer a political analyst, four little five little six more exhaust pipes, a banker a psychiatrist a building contractor. Shall we go for statistical analysis? One by one, assassination by list, here are the pansies:
The lab tech drives a Volvo, he's quirky and smart and has a green greasy sheen on his skin I find somewhat repulsive. Vegan, too, and such strict self-imposed dietary requirements tend to leave me asking Why? Video game junkie, definitely, and talks in slang and lingo more than I prefer. He's head honcho at the lab and can identify more types of foreign agents in a micro-slide of shit or blood or piss or saliva than anyone I know... but what, exactly, would we discuss over bland food and thrice-filtered water? How could I possibly have a relationship with someone to whom the word "shit" means his life's work?
The lawyer drives a brand spankin' new black with tinted windows BMW of course, and I suspect he is, in fact, an android. His hair does not ever move; there's no evidence it is not plastic, it always has the same shape and style, the perfect part, amazingly matched sideburns. I can tell he practices facial expressions in the mirror. He signs even the personal notes to me (be still my heart!) with "Esquire" after his name, and takes himself as serious as a heart attack. No funny bones in that body, unless it's Obviously Supposed To Be Funny, and then HA HA HA HA! he laughs like a puppet with the top of his head lifting up. He has a degree in history, too, and conversation can be interesting, but I fear an argument with someone trained to argue because then I'd get frustrated and have to kill him. Perhaps, then, it's a bonus that he gets bored with any conversation not centered on him, and he starts talking about his intelligence, his dog, or his recent golf game.
Mr. Conservative psych-I-prescribe-highly-addictive-drugs-to-little-kids-to-make-them-more-tractable-atrist drives a new convertible Toyota Celica with all the extras. I have nothing to say to this man but he calls me daily at 3:15, and seems to want only to talk about the weather. He has a mini statue of Venus de Milo in his office, which causes me great personal umbrage, guilty as I am of being a former lingerie model who suffered digital amputation and decapitation. He flexes his jaw muscles a lot. No, I mean a lot.
The building contractor drives the biggest possible white Dodge Ram pickup truck imaginable. The truck compliments his big soup-straining pussy-ticklin MUCH too proud of it mustache, check the spelling, this is no moustache. He calls me at all hours using his company (HIS company's) phone. He carries a rifle in his truck, he got that rifle rack chromed, just to match the bumpers. He has a wide handsome brow and unfocused grey eyes and a strangely shaped gap between his front bottom teeth, visible most of the time from too much chewing tobacco sucked during elementary school. He brags on his boat. Vroom vroom, he says! He invited me to join him on the lake in his "backyard" for New Year's Eve. "We can get ourselves a goose." He does have nice hands, but, well, no.
The political analyst pundit butt-whiffer drives a green Range Rover and blah blah blah blah! I know him much better than I should; he's far too free and easy with me. Little does he know. He does Exxxxtreme Mountain Climbing, he goes UP the mountain, you see (he told me that). Right now he's a Republican, although he has changed political parties 5 times (he told me that. He TOLD me! What a dumbfuck). This man has a cocaine nosejob but he's "done with it" (he TOLD me!) and he's really fucking preachy about doing drugs, but he'll go to a party and then ask, "Who's fixing drinks?" and "Where's the booze?" It's most unfortunate my social circles ellipse with his because he tends towards touchy-feely. He has a Harley and hopes someday I will buy a helmet. He's good-looking and athletic and I feel like telling him he'd get more girls to go out with him if HE had an EXTRA helmet, but why should I? Dumbass.
The bank owner drives a new gold Pathfinder. He is a ski nut, does Exxxxtreme Skiing (he goes DOWN the mountain, you see, he and the political yes-man can belly-buck about superiority-- one goes up, the other goes down. Or maybe about S.U.V.irility-- they can see whose winch on the front of each box-shaped vehicle is stronger and more potent). He's tall, tall, tall, with the haughtiness AND bad-posture issues that go with most tall people. But he has great legs; some weird part of me wants to dress this prematurely-balding homophobe up in a slinky black dress and fishnet stockings and take him to smoky-glass candle-lit bars and drink Midori Sours until he's silly. Alas, he is a teetotaler, and really fucking preachy about drinking alcohol, but he appreciates a bowl of maryjane now and then.
Which one wins? If I'm the loving cup then not a one. In fact I'm more inclined to pair them together, the banker and the politician, the lab technician with the lawyer, and the contractor with the psychiatrist. Matches made in Heaven.
Burn, baby, burn.