Spouse and I were on the way home from work last night. It was a Bad Day At The Office for both of us, and we were verging on homicidal as we made our way home in sullen silence. We were stopped at a traffic light, awash in our misanthropy, when we both became aware (as if you could ignore it) of a green minivan pulling up next to us. Although the day was a mite chilly (Canada in mid November – what do you expect?), the asshat operating said minivan had the windows all the way down. Why, you ask? Well, because the teenage driver was treating us all to a sampling of his music at a reasonable volume – if by “reasonable volume” you mean “John Bonham playing Moby Dick while falling downstairs – with six screaming jet engines stuffed in his pockets” (he didn’t have the Zep on the radio – it was some boom-chicky disco shite that was completely unrecognizable, so profound was the harmonic distortion involved in this particular reproduction of the recording). Spouse and I just kind of looked at each other and smiled knowingly; not like we haven’t each been guilty of similar offences somewhere in our distant pasts.
As the van drove away, I spied the license plate on the vehicle: “MRS RNEE”. We both just busted out laughing – so fervent and misplaced is the desire to be cool of the last of the rock and roll outlaws that he is prepared to pump the tunes in his Mama’s minivan. Gather near to you all those that you hold dear, for the plundering Viking hordes are descending upon us, and they have their Mom’s Plymouth Voyagers with vanity plates.
All that was missing was the hydraulics and glowing neon underbelly. Message to dude: you are not cool. I’m not claiming that I am either, but I accept my inner minivan rather than loudly denying its existence.