Spotted on my errands run into West Leb: a prime example of the Douchemobile.
Japanese pod-people mover with no racing aspirations? Check.
Spoilers and lips all around, containing more plastic than a yogurt factory? Check.
Tail fin on the trunk lid big enough to serve as a fast food table for a family of four? Check.
Ground clearance less than six inches? Check. (If that car ever makes it into a parking garage with speed bumps, it’ll be stranded on top of one.)
Giant fart can? Check. He probably has to secure it with a grate at night so the bums don’t seek shelter in it. (Bonus points for using a rear spoiler kit with two relief cuts for exhaust pipes on a vehicle with a single exhaust.)
Garish do-it-yourself paint job to cover all the spackle? Check. (Bonus points for the hue: baby blue.)
Giant tachometer in the top corner of the instrument panel? Check. (Diameter of the tach: roughly that of a pie plate.)
Five-point harness? Check.
Neon license plate frame? Check.
“Hunky” driver? Check. (Early twenties, three hundred pounds, scraggly goatee. Babe magnet, just like his car.)
Music cranked up loud enough to drive nails at fifty yards? Check.
But the best detail by far was the door handle, which had been removed. He had filled the resulting hole in the door by spackling it and then painting over it. The removal of the door handle probably saved ten ounces at best, the wind resistance improvement is negligible, and the weight savings could have been achieved by the driver skipping his McDonald’s lunches for a week.
What I want to know is this:
Has anyone driving such a steed ever gotten laid on account of his taste in automobiles?
Ah…America. Where people have the freedom to turn inoffensive Japanese econoboxes into Douchemobiles…and where other people have the freedom to point and laugh at them.