Dear Custom License Plate Buyer

Driving is one of my least favorite things in the world.  Take all of the worst attributes of any given person, and those flaws will have a spotlight shone on them when they are driving.  People are rarely as self centered and idiotic as when they are commanding the wheel of thousands of pounds of metal and cheap upholstery.  I've spoken my peace about bumper stickers in the past, but a recent trip on the Washington Beltway proved that I had not gone far enough.  Those stickers only cost a few bucks.  The true egotists are those that pay much more money to have six to eight letters encompass their whole being as a vanity license plate.

It became clear to me that these were the endtimes as I got struck behind a Mercedes doing 50 in a 65 on one of the most aggressive and dangerous roads in the Mid Atlantic.  As cars streamed along 25 miles per hour faster than us on either side, I had no choice but to follow close on his tail and witness his "BuyAYot" license plate.  I can only assume you mean a luxury sea faring vessel, and you aren't telling me to invest in a yellow/orange tabby, a Yugoslavian orangutan trainer, or a young oriental toddler.  No, you rich prick, in your car that costs more than I ever make in a year, you are telling me that in addition to your lame excuse for a penis extension you also own a boat that costs more than I will make in a decade.  Well, guess what, seaman?  You're on dry cot-damned land, and you're in my world now, Jack.  Move your overpriced womb out of my lane.

Later down the road, I ran into possibly the only functioning 1993 Toyota Tercel left in existence. It was a pleasant mix of Robin's egg blue and hellfire rust, and seemed to run on the souls of both Milli and Vanilli, judging from the cloud of death following it.  Through the exhaust, I was able to make out its plate "DaCoach".  Here's a list of things you can be the coach of and still ride around in the 90's version of a teenager's first car.

1) Any tee-ball team, anywhere, but that has to be your only paying job.
2) The owner of the Pittsburgh Pirates, if he refused to buy a car after Barry Bonds left the team.
3) Someone who does performance art pretending to be a Coach brand handbag on subway cars or in Subway restaurants. 

Seriously, I think the license plate was worth more than the car.  It looked like it was being held together with a mixture of Elmer's Glue and unmitigated spite for the world.  An ape at the zoo could have angry sex with a dumpster and that dumpster would end up in better shape, and cleaner I might add, than that Tercel, yet this person felt the need to jazz it up with a little personal flair.  There is such a phrase as "lipstick on a pig" for a reason.

I will make one concession on this, before my esteemed colleague Karl Spackler hunts for the only available  WIFI signal in the holler he lives in to send me hate mail.  Motorcycles get a pass on the custom plates, because they are for fun.  Car drivers that have them are not having fun.  They want people to think they are having fun, because they spend most nights crying as Jay Leno lets them know that the darkness is so very close.