A Letter to Millenigenarians Concerning Sports Cars

Dear ancient, ancient elder monkeys of the road,

Specifically the road I'm on, directly in front of me, going 20 miles per hour, on a major interstate.

I write to you today out of confusion. I've noticed lately that you, and many others like you, have had a sudden onset of affection for a class of automobile usually reserved for bald spots and shrunken penises. Of course I mean clichéd, mid-life crisis sports cars.

You know the ones I mean. Factory stock Corvettes and Porches that come with customized key fobs and license plates that say "TOP GUN". Painted bright hues of Yellow and Red and Orange like beautiful road flowers using their spectrum to attract bees to their pedals. Bees, or in this case, vagina to take back to their rented condo.

But, I digress. I am describing the usual owners of these particular automobiles. Owners that, even though are usually disgusting and annoying, I don't have a problem with. Why? Because a balding former high school quarter back with a large alimony payment and tiny, tiny balls has everything in the world to prove. They get in their BMW Z3 and they hit the road like a banshee escaping the fires of hell.

So what if they have the sense and coordination of a fetus? At least they are away from me.

But you. You people with your hip replacements and your Lasik on both eyes. You don't need to be in these cars. These cars aren't for you. I know they're not for you, because I'm behind you while you drive them. Stopped. In an intersection.

Oh God. Did it happen? Are you dead? Maybe I should get out and che …

Nope! You're awake! There you go. Fucking asshole.

Why did you even get that car? What are you? 60? 65? Get a goddamn Camry and just accept that you are no longer the sex symbol you were during the Spanish American War. You can't just pull up to a Luby's and have any woman you want. Or, at least any woman that is allowed to leave her assisted living bus as long as she signs out.

So what is this car? A way to reclaim your youth? The youth you can't remember along with where you left your shoes or who your grandchildren are? Or is it really a way to get the old wrinkled sex ball rolling again?

I don't think your sporty two seater is going to be the lube machine you're hoping for. Have you ever seen what honey does to a bag of sand? Let me give you a hint. Afterwards, you still have a bag of sand, and you're out a bottle of honey.

You see, sports cars are a symbol that mixes danger with wealth. They are a way to make regular, stupid, ugly men to feel like James Bond. The idea being the speed and the price will excite the young ladies into carnal acts of expression. Young being the operative word.

When you take speed and high dollar and introduce them to the stable of ladies you are eligible for, all you get are strokes and hour long piss and moan sessions about how much milk has gone up. So you get the car to spice up your 85 year marriage and the first time you take it for a spin, the wife is gripping the arm rest and squeezing her eyes shut because she knows you're legally blind in 5 states and it's only a matter of time before you plow right into a telephone pole going, what is that, 28 miles an hour.

But, you don't want to take the car back, because then that would be admitting that your ratio of hair to skin tipped a long time ago and you are, in fact, old. So guess who pays the price.

That's right, me.

A young man in a moderately priced mid-size CAR. Cursing your fragile bones as I realize it's going to take me twice as long to get dog food because the advanced state of atrophy in the driver in front of me is actually causing him to go slower and slower as the muscles that allow him to press the gas pedal deteriorate to goo inside his own leg.

I'm not asking you to floor it, I'm not even asking you to speed, I'm just asking you to stop wasting that vehicle on yourself. Trade it in for a gigantic SUV for your wife that she can use to wipe out a school bus while she's trying to answer her cellular telephone. Give that car to someone who will use it for what it's built for, statutory rape.

You know, someone like a high school track coach or a recently divorced dermatologist.

Just not you, dude. Just not you.

Sincerely,
Chiggie Von Richthofen
Trying to choose the lesser of two completely fucked groups of people.