Sunday, January 26, 2014

Dear People with Bumper Stickers

I can make things much simpler for all of you.  No one cares that you like Phish.  Ditto on The Greatful Dead.  No one will Eat Bertha's Mussels just because your car told them to, and no one gives a damn about your sticker family.  If you love it so much, go back to the OBX.  I've become highly suspicious of the level of merit it takes for a child to become an honors student by the sheer volume of children who have appear to done so.  I could care less who you voted for or plan to, and this doesn't make me want to "coexist" with you so please stop advertising all of this on your bumper or back windshield.

Is any of this really important enough that you feel the need to broadcast it to every schmo that follows you in the car?  Is the band moe. so integral to your state of being that all must know of their importance to you?  You're the type of person that sees a "Cool Story, Bro" t-shirt on the boardwalk and simply must have it to complete your wardrobe.  You need to say something at all times, because the silence is too much.

I had bumper stickers on my car.  I put them on when I got the car at age sixteen, and never bothered to scrape them off until I was 22 and had a job where driving around with a faded Operation Ivy sticker in the window wasn't the most professional choice.  The point is, I put a bunch a stickers for punk bands on my car because I was a sixteen year old wuss in Catholic school that wanted to look cool.  I'm not a 50 year old redneck with a "NoBama" sticker on my car simply because the darkest person I trust is my friend Cooter with a sunburn after a day of fishing.

I was too young to know better.  Since you are allowed by law to drive around thousands of pounds of metal at high speeds, I only wish you were smart enough to know better. 

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