On the Road of Life there are Doughnuts
Last weekend I packed three generations of bunnies into a car the size of Utah and went venturing far afield. It was not unlike taking "being hit on the head" lessons for eight hours.
We made it. In good time and in good shape and the kids got tossed in the pool and because they had behaved themselves so well, their stone swimming belts were benevolently left behind.
Some of the benefits of driving a vehicle with its own capitol and legislature is that someone in Riyadh loves you. Another is the advantageous sitting position of being upon high and staring down at all the lowly others on the highway who had the misfortune of driving something that cannot blot out the sun. Its a seating height you can only get by strapping one of Mom's favorite Windsors to the roof of the '89 Taurus and grabbing your ski goggles 'cause it's Junebug season. Hey, just tell the Trooper you're auditioning for Granny in "The New Beverly Hillbillies."
You start to class drivers into two basic groups; boring and on their way, and those with a story to tell. The first are the ones you see all the time. Dad's got the wheel at the ten and two, Mom is looking for NPR on the radio, kids in the back playing Othello's tragic reliance on Iago. Or single guys and/or gals with a dorm room full of crap, or just on their way from the Seven Eleven with this week's losing lottery ticket. The cars are generally clean and bland and well taken care of and you smile and nod and go on your way.
Then there's the other group; these are the ones you wish you had tinted windows for because they are as alluring as a traffic accident in that they are truly awful but you just can't help but look. The black and rust pickup, three across on the bench seat, driver's got the wheel with his beer belly and they might have 18 teeth between the lot of them. There are chainsaws falling out of the gateless back and you don't want to know what's under the tarp. Sure, they're hogging the left lane doing all of fifty nine in a sixty five but let's just pass them on the right. Just this once.
A '91 something or other sedan-it could have started life as a Pontiac but has had enough Ford, VW and Nissan parts grafted on you start to wonder if the horn says "Fire Good!" when you blow it-comes up on your right with a driver that might have fresh parole papers stuffed in his shirt pocket and the woman next to him has emptied some Wal-Mart somewhere of an entire inventory of hair curlers. The children, they look to be in their late thirties, are stuffed in the back amidst partially completed taxidermy projects and have their faces pressed to the window glass with pleading expressions not unlike suffocating guppies. Lets pull of for a stretch break NOW guys, comes out of your mouth as you slam the turn signal like a cockroach on your breakfast platter.
Lastly there's the out of work oversize load escort vehicle. Its a beat to hell minivan, approved by New York State, for what I have no idea. The "Oversize Load" sign on the roof is folded down but one look in the front seat and you feel that that's in error. Someone of indeterminate sex turns around and starts rustling in the back seat. You hope in vain that they are adjusting a child's safety harness and are rewarded when they come back with the treasure of a couple of cold Genesee's from the chest. Aha, it must be lunchtime because it is that hour and plastic things are being unwrapped, their coverings added to the collection on the front dash that would call out the Department of Health if you had it at home. As you pass, you note that she's at the wheel with her thumb stuck through a sticky bun so she can hang on to the wheel and free the other hand for a Marlboro that no doubt will get launched at the next cop. Apologies to Jeff Foxworthy here but this bunch make rednecks look like the next graduating class at Stanford.
Are we there yet? Something you catch yourself saying a lot. To yourself. Under your breath.
Bunny on.
We made it. In good time and in good shape and the kids got tossed in the pool and because they had behaved themselves so well, their stone swimming belts were benevolently left behind.
Some of the benefits of driving a vehicle with its own capitol and legislature is that someone in Riyadh loves you. Another is the advantageous sitting position of being upon high and staring down at all the lowly others on the highway who had the misfortune of driving something that cannot blot out the sun. Its a seating height you can only get by strapping one of Mom's favorite Windsors to the roof of the '89 Taurus and grabbing your ski goggles 'cause it's Junebug season. Hey, just tell the Trooper you're auditioning for Granny in "The New Beverly Hillbillies."
You start to class drivers into two basic groups; boring and on their way, and those with a story to tell. The first are the ones you see all the time. Dad's got the wheel at the ten and two, Mom is looking for NPR on the radio, kids in the back playing Othello's tragic reliance on Iago. Or single guys and/or gals with a dorm room full of crap, or just on their way from the Seven Eleven with this week's losing lottery ticket. The cars are generally clean and bland and well taken care of and you smile and nod and go on your way.
Then there's the other group; these are the ones you wish you had tinted windows for because they are as alluring as a traffic accident in that they are truly awful but you just can't help but look. The black and rust pickup, three across on the bench seat, driver's got the wheel with his beer belly and they might have 18 teeth between the lot of them. There are chainsaws falling out of the gateless back and you don't want to know what's under the tarp. Sure, they're hogging the left lane doing all of fifty nine in a sixty five but let's just pass them on the right. Just this once.
A '91 something or other sedan-it could have started life as a Pontiac but has had enough Ford, VW and Nissan parts grafted on you start to wonder if the horn says "Fire Good!" when you blow it-comes up on your right with a driver that might have fresh parole papers stuffed in his shirt pocket and the woman next to him has emptied some Wal-Mart somewhere of an entire inventory of hair curlers. The children, they look to be in their late thirties, are stuffed in the back amidst partially completed taxidermy projects and have their faces pressed to the window glass with pleading expressions not unlike suffocating guppies. Lets pull of for a stretch break NOW guys, comes out of your mouth as you slam the turn signal like a cockroach on your breakfast platter.
Lastly there's the out of work oversize load escort vehicle. Its a beat to hell minivan, approved by New York State, for what I have no idea. The "Oversize Load" sign on the roof is folded down but one look in the front seat and you feel that that's in error. Someone of indeterminate sex turns around and starts rustling in the back seat. You hope in vain that they are adjusting a child's safety harness and are rewarded when they come back with the treasure of a couple of cold Genesee's from the chest. Aha, it must be lunchtime because it is that hour and plastic things are being unwrapped, their coverings added to the collection on the front dash that would call out the Department of Health if you had it at home. As you pass, you note that she's at the wheel with her thumb stuck through a sticky bun so she can hang on to the wheel and free the other hand for a Marlboro that no doubt will get launched at the next cop. Apologies to Jeff Foxworthy here but this bunch make rednecks look like the next graduating class at Stanford.
Are we there yet? Something you catch yourself saying a lot. To yourself. Under your breath.
Bunny on.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at Saturday, July 22, 2006
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home