Cars We Hate for the People Who Drive Them.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. We all hate certain kinds of cars, but is it the cars we hate, or is it the stereotype behind the wheel? You have your list…here’s mine.

The Smart fortwo

I was on the highway the other day when I spotted a bizarre contraption that looked like a clown car with a lumberjack inside. There was actually a man inside this tuna can with windows who had the seat pushed so far back he looked like he was wearing the thing instead of driving it. This friends, is the Smart fortwo. More a shoe box with wheels than a car, it is what happens when the number of tree hugging hippies in the world reaches critical mass so that some of them inevitably acquire jobs in the engineering sector. It isn’t enough that they drive ugly, underpowered shit boxes that are so small you have to take your clothes off to operate them. They won’t be happy until we all suffer the same way every day.

If this is what it takes to save the planet, then screw the planet.

You heard me. I wouldn’t drive one of those things to save my own life, so what makes you think I would drive one to save yours? The pudgy schmuck driving this one glanced over at me and scoffed smugly, as if to say “I can’t feel my legs but I still get better mileage than you do.” Sure, you get 40 and I get 33; around these parts that’s worth about twenty bucks. But I drive a subtly tricked out jet black Mitsubishi with a custom exhaust that sounds like two panthers having sex. There is no exchange rate on the amount of tail I get. Put that in your bong and smoke it, hippie.

All SUV’s

I know that SUV’s are an easy target, just like Hitler. But if they were getting what they deserved they’d all be gone – just like Hitler. So, let me get this straight: you need a six thousand pound, eight passenger four wheel drive urban assault vehicle just to talk on your cell phone on the way to the office? Is it because you are a man with a small dick or because you’re a woman who thinks she’s so important to society she needs to drive a Bradley Fighting Vehicle to her hair appointment? There’s no point in using my mirrors in traffic any more, because no matter which way I look there’s a land yacht the size of the Millennium Freaking Falcon blocking my view. Since I drive a mid size vehicle, backing out of a parking space between two of those damn things is like being born again. Of course, there’s a reason why we can’t remember being born. If we could we’d all be insane, just like I am when I drive to work every morning trying to dodge you assholes in your fucking Imperial land walkers.

Anything Made By BMW

I don’t hate BMW’s, per se. I just hate the douche bags that drive them; they all think they’re better than you and therefore exempt from the laws of the road. They don’t need to signal, they don’t need to use their mirrors, they don’t even need to use brakes – because they all think they’re at the top of the food chain. I have news for you Richie Rich. That 750i is pretty sweet all right. But it’s more man than you are and it still isn’t a Mercedes. Sure, you could have saved a few bucks and bought an Audi A8, but that prick Winthorpe next door already has one, doesn’t he? And We can’t have him showing you up, can we? Remember when he picked up that redhead trophy wife just to top your blond one? Oh, and how about the way he keeps going on about those polished travertine floors he and that carrot topped tramp just installed in their master bathroom! Plus, do they really have to travel to France twice a year just to spite you? Seriously, if you have to sit through one more story about their summer home in Chartres…bastard! The pecking order had to be re-established. You had no choice but to buy a hyper-expensive, computerized, leather trimmed rolling dildo. Winthorpe made you buy a BMW, because there’s no way you’re going to let him be the biggest narcissist in your cul-de-sac. This will show that smug son of a bitch. And one day when you’re finally arrested for insider trading you’ll find that the things you think you own actually own you. See you in hell, Rockefeller.

The Honda Civic

You know that sound you hear every now and then at a stop light? No, it is different from my exhaust tone. This one sounds like a fat guy with explosive diarrhea relieving himself into a coffee can. Yeah, that would be this guy. Some 25 year old punk with his hat on backward, his pants around his ankles and a six foot whale tail on the trunk. I’m not saying I don’t dig some things about the ride. I like to roll Fast and Furious, but I am all about avoiding the 5-0 and not looking like a shit-brick. It’s just that when you go this far to get yourself noticed, it means you have problems. Unless you have a sponsor and a track time this weekend, quit pretending, punk. I know you live with your parents, work at a Pizza Hut and can afford your iPhone only because you sell weed on the side. Hitting 0-60 in 4.5 seconds is nice, but it doesn’t really come in handy in the food service industry. Get a real job and one day you’ll realize – it isn’t about being fast, it is about looking good. That’s when you’ll trade up for a BMW and a couple of Asian hookers.