Thursday, July 29, 2010

Are you trying to kill your kids?

It's no secret that I want to kill your kids, and by the sheer neglect I see at the auto show it looks like you feel much the same.

However, do me a favor and don't actually try to kill your child with your own stupidity at the auto show.

I scanned the above pic from an official show program. Yes, that is a child in a car trunk. Why yes, someone actually encouraged that kid to get into the trunk of that car. Seriously, because being shoved in trunks of cars is a fun game? Especially when strangers are involved. It's okay - Mommy (who admits you were an accident and has spent every day since your birth drunk) is right here, you won't get hurt.

Jesus f-ing Christ, people. These are kids. Kids aren't exactly known for being the brightest bulbs in the tanning bed.

This is what your kid is thinking:
Oh cool, I get to climb into the trunk of this car!

This is what your kid is thinking a month later when he sees an abandoned car in a lot he's playing in by your house unsupervised because Mommy is drunk again:
Oh cool, I should climb in the trunk of this car! If it was okay a month ago, it must be okay now!

Because kids are dumbasses.

Now, I know you think your kid is already MENSA material, but let me assure you, he is not. I know he is not because I see your little ankle-biters climbing into the trunks of cars at least three times per show with no adult supervision. So your whole "He knows it's only okay if I'm there" argument is bullsh!t.

Plus you and I both know that if something happened to your kid in that trunk you'd try to blame me even though Darwin's law was fully in effect. All of a sudden you think you're going to get your kid's college education paid for by some car company despite the fact that your kid is obviously too f-ing stupid to stay the hell out of a car trunk and therefor obviously not exactly Harvard-bound.

I will sic security on you, I swear to God - and a woman at that, because they're much meaner than the dudes.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Shoot the gap

It's always the ones you least expect.

I've heard the same story so many times from sales guys: Some guy wearing dirty old clothes comes into the dealership and is ignored by one salesperson, and when he comes back the next day in a suit (because he's actually filthy rich but likes to mow his own lawn for sh!ts and giggles) he gives his business to someone else who didn't pre-judge him.

Now, I can pretty much tell who's going to be a total knob to me from the next display over. I can see it in the expression on your face when you're talking to the other brand's booth babes, by the way you carry yourself. And yet, I refrain from judgement (outwardly at least) and talk to you anyway in the same friendly way I do the non-knobs, until you piss me off. And even then I just end the conversation and walk away. I don't even punch you in the junk! 

Point is, I don't judge a book by its cover because on rare occasion the pre-spotted knobs have turned out to be cool. And the lady you think will only be interested in vanity mirrors and cup holders may have a nascent need for speed that only you can help develop.

I love it when a woman pushing a stroller asks me to compare torque numbers within our lineup.

I love it when a 7-year-old girl rattles off more technical specs than a Detroit engineer.

I love it when I overhear Grandmas talk about the "real" purpose of rear seat privacy shades (naughty Grandma). It's always far less creepy than when Grandpa does the same.

I love it when I shock the hell out of some know-it-all by, well, knowing it all.

Don't assume, kids. Ass. You. Me. Etc.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Minivan man

Last week on I discussed the various ways in which your vehicle is preventing you from getting laid. Some readers took issue with my inclusion of minivans in the list of vehicular dating no-no's, I'm assuming because they themselves drive one and have not gotten laid by their wives or anyone else since their last perpetually sticky, screaming rugrat was born.

Someone brought up the issue of musicians, saying they drive minivans and have no problem getting laid. I don't know what kind of children's party players this guy is hanging out with, but I know more than my share of professional musicians and not one of them drives a minivan. They are all rolling in pickup trucks with caps or SUVs. Very occasionally do I even see an Econoline-type van anymore.

But if you still think I'm wrong about the minivan thing, I'd like you to meet Jesse Thornhill. He drives a minivan - a 1996 Ford Winstar, to be precise. He was arrested in Tulsa, OK for trying to run over his landlord with said minivan, as a matter of fact.

Interested, ladies? I'm pretty sure he's single.

Photo and info courtesy of The Smoking Gun.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Airport woes Pt 1

So obviously I travel, a lot. I travel so much that in the last four years I've earned enough miles for five free round-trip domestic airline tickets and countless first class upgrades. Most of that travel occurs December through April.

I am intimately familiar with many airports in this country. (Here's a free travel tip for you: There's a "secret" security gate at the Detroit airport that never has a line. It connects the W to the rest of the terminal. Use this information wisely.) I am also intimately familiar with the travel habits of the American public. It's not any better in the airport than at the auto show; the only difference is that people aren't asking me stupid questions.

My biggest annoyance at the airport isn't check-in or security lines (my frequent flier status usually allows me to bypass them), having to take my shoes off or flight delays (I've actually been really lucky in that department, knock on wood).

No, my friends, it is the people mover that is my nemesis.

Well not the people mover itself, but the people ON the people mover. People who apparently cannot read the six signs along the way that say "Stand to the right, walk on the left." That are written in at least two languages, often three.

I'm so glad you have all day to lollygag around and get in other people's way, but some of us have things to do. Things like, oh, I don't know, catch our flights maybe? Since we're here at the airport and all? There are a dozen people trying to get by you and you barely budge from the middle of the mover, throwing shade at those of us who actually read the sign and are following the rules of people mover traffic.

Then there are the people who are actually following the letter of the law by standing on the right, but their suitcase is totally blocking the left side. More shade throwing when you say "Excuse me."

You are not Supreme Leader of the Airport. You don't get to inconvenience everyone else because you're oblivious and lazy.  Move over or I'll run you over. I've done it before and I'll do it again. If you don't move over after I've asked you politely (multiple times even!) then you're probably going to get whacked by one of my bags as I move past you anyway. Not on purpose, but that's what you get for not following the rules of the people mover.

Yet another example of Special Little Snowflake Syndrome in action.

PS - Check out my column this week over at!

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Don't shoot the messenger

It was brought to my attention via a great blog post at that the comments on my column over at TTAC last week got a little rough. I resisted the urge to go look for myself. Ugly comments really only reinforce what I write about here.

When I wrote those couple of pieces for Jalopnik I made the mistake of refreshing my browser almost obsessively, reading each and every comment and getting more and more pissed. I'd keep reading over the course of the next couple of days, as long as the feeding frenzy continued. It accomplished nothing but to make me feel, well, icky. I obviously encounter enough a$$holes on a daily basis. I don't need to add any more to the mix.

Here on this blog I have the luxury of moderating comments. If you're a dick, your comment doesn't get posted. Simple as that. I'm not here to give you a forum in which to make yourself feel like a big man by being sh!tty to me.

But I don't have that luxury elsewhere, so I have a rule. I generally stop reading comments over at TTAC after the first day. A full day's worth of comments is long enough to give me a sense of what the general direction of readers attitudes will be. Last week was actually the only time it got as ugly as it did. The first day I responded to some people and ignored the worst offenders, but I could see that it was taking a turn towards a Jalopnik-style free-for-all so I didn't go back. Nor will I.

The thing that really gets me is this: If you are so upset and worked up over what I wrote, I can guarantee you that you are the person I'm writing about. You're pissed because I just called you out on your idiocy. Frankly, everyone else - the normal, polite, engaging, non-sexist, non-racist, hygienic, intelligent people - everyone else thinks it's funny.And they think it's funny because they know it's true.

The things I write about don't just happen to me, and they don't just happen at the auto show. Anyone who has worked with the public for any amount of time can tell the same stories. The only difference is I'm standing in a convention center when these things happen, and they are waiting tables or ringing up your purchases or writing your traffic tickets or trying to help you at the bank.

So I'm not the only person who thinks you're an a$$hole. Basically, everyone you encounter every day of your life thinks you're an a$$hole. Don't shoot the messenger.