Posts Tagged ‘vanity’

h1

Stop drawing the deer…

May 9, 2011

Somedays I wish I had money. Mad money. The kind of money where I never had to work another job that required me to wear a single piece of flair or answer a phone. Let’s be honest…I could walk into the light never having answered another phone call and feel my life was more than complete. What would I do with all that time I wasn’t spending on the phone awkwardly talking over someone or sounding like a short circuiting Speak-N-Spell with a shit ass cell signal? I’d photodocument one of the most fascinating phenomenon’s known to modern man: the vanity plate.

It’s hard for some people to imagine that anyone would have such a desperate desire to be heard that they would ask a jumpsuit-laden inmate to pound it into metal for them. I can respect that observation. If you’ve ever sat next to someone in an all day seminar and never so much as heard them breathing you’ll know there are those who walk among us perfectly content with going unnoticed. I am not one of these people. And judging by the number of times each week I rear-end, scratch, or ding the door* of a car that has a custom plate, we far outnumber the stealthy ones. The uneven balance of narcissists to clueless-about-themselves is fine by me since it gives me a chance to put the Psych degree I never took a single course in order to complete to work guessing what it is people are really trying to say.

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Let’s start with this guy. I had just left a grueling day of pushing pixels and trying to convince people who are not-at-all right brained that they should give a damn about user flow and typography and that not all designers are bubble-headed bimbos. Yes, my life is awesome. Brain fried, I pulled up behind this SUV. Immediately I was confused — was I in New York? Should I be in New York? It was gray and nasty outside and 3 people had spit at me that today so it wasn’t completely out possibility. Nope, that’s the ‘impossible to get into and out of QuickTrip’ on the right and the ‘please have a FREE FRYDAY McDonald’s’ on the left so I was most definitely still in Atlanta. It took me the entirety of the red light (which is far too long, by the way) to bring this thought process full circle I applauded this guy for his vanity choice. It’s good to keep people on their toes and remind them there’s a whole world out there far beyond the food processor most of us spend our day spinning in.

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I came across this spicy number on my way back from a little league baseball game. My mind boggled: what in the hell? Why would anyone openly admit to be a ho? Or a toy? Or sloppy seconds?? None of it made sense and no matter how many different ways I tried to get into the head of the driver, I just couldn’t. There were too many flithy magazine renewal cards and fifths of cheap vodka in there to have any elbow room. So I did what any half-conscience and fully functional adult would do. I assumed it was meant to be read together to make a clever word. Yes, that had to be it. HOTOYTWO. HOTOYTWO. HOTOYTWO. Son of a bitch – HOTOYFUCKINGTWO makes no sense and now I’ve wasted this entire red light making my mouth into Donald Trump butthole shapes in my failed attempt to force something that required no effort to begin with. It is what it says: HO TOY2. I can accept that. What I still can’t get over is why someone would call themselves a ho. Or a toy. Or sloppy seconds. And pay a premium tag fee each year in order to do so when carrying a bottle of Valtrex around would be so much cheaper.

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That brings us to me. Yep. Me. Shocking, I know – not just that I enjoying talking to myself on this blog (I actually really do a bit too much I think) but that I would have a vanity plate on my car. I’m just that much of an asshole with the burning piss and desire to get something out there. I’ve found it a very interesting study in human behavior having a vanity plate. Second only to the 3 years a drove a Miata and everyone at red lights, stop signs or strip club parking lots felt it gave them the right to ask me for directions, asprins, an extra pair of flip-flops or my ABBA CD. Hey dick-face, how about you download your own illegal music on your own ex-boyfriend’s computer and turn him into the Feds. Like I did.

*Before the police in my local area are called, please note that all of the outlined instances happen to my own vehicle at the hands of myself. Daily.

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