Bumper Sticker Mysteries

While I was sitting in traffic this morning, I looked over and saw this Bumper sticker on the back of a Chrysler Pacifica:



You girls are such scamps! That made me laugh. At least until I pulled up next to the driver, and found that it wasn't a woman, but a man in his mid '50's! With very little hair. And a sour expression.


As we were sitting in traffic together, I began to wonder how he came to be driving this car. It didn't seem to fit him. He looked more like the old beige Volvo or new red Convertible type to me. As we were incarcerated in traffic hell, I had time to speculate.


Was he the Walter Mitty husband, nagged into driving his wife's car to the dealership for servicing? Maybe she finally remembered to tell him the oil light was on for the last two weeks. . . again. She was driving him to an early grave, and at this point, he was welcoming it.


Or perhaps he bought this car for his daughter, away at college, and he was driving her car to her out-of-state campus, because he couldn't let his little girl drive all the way by herself. The sticker on her car makes him very uncomfortable, but he'd be too embarrassed to mention it to her. He was already mortified that his neighbor Frank swore that his saw her on a "Girls Gone Wild" video his son had hidden in his closet.


Or, after sizing him up for a bit, I decided he could be a vicious carjacker. He probably waited around a stop sign near her home, and when the fem hipster came tootling up, he pulled out his gat, New Jack City style, and forced her from her car. Now he was on the way to the Chop Shop to meet his evil cronies, drinking her Chai Latte half-caf and listening to NPR's "Talk of the Nation". No, wait. . .that's not on until 2, must be "Morning edition". That's probably road grime on the car door, but it could be dried blood.





Or maybe he was an old hippy with a sense of irony, and this sticker reminded him of the good old days of free love, psychedelics and occupying various administration buildings, his long hair in his eyes whilst strumming the only cord he knew on his battered guitar.


Or it could have been that he was a cross dresser who goes by the name of Margie Manhands on the weekends. After cruising a bit and finding a suitor, he likes his um, she likes, her wig pulled. That's how Margie gets down.

*Shudder*

Then the traffic began to move again, and he cut in front of me without a blinker or even a courtesy wave, and I was sure of it: Henpecked husband. No killer carjacker or Transvestite would have been foolish enough to draw attention to himself like that. I would have flipped him off, but er. . . just in case I was wrong, I decided not to. I don't want to go out like that, yo.


SA