Cars From Mars

The powers that be could vote to change America’s car fleet fuel system at any time. In order to switch from dead dinosaur-goo powered propulsion to water, or air-driven engines to save the planet from the Abominable Global-Warming Monster, all Congress has to do is wave its petroleum soaked wand. Abracadabra! We could change into a gluttonous sweet-toothed, sugar-cane driven nation to fuel our cars. We would force ourselves to eat less too. Not only would it trim our waistlines but eliminating the foggy cloud resulting from fossil fuels would enable us to see angels smiling upon us and birds gleefully tweeting. Then living in such a Madison Avenue commercial could be in our future.

The only resistance Americans offer to such a dramatic economic transformation comes when examining futuristic car manufacturer offerings. The blazing trail of new vehicle creations, from the seemingly two-year-old mindset, appears to have been designed on the drawing board with crayons. Advancement in automotive technology today resembles the prototypes of the late 1970’s when America rumbled seriously about dealing with its dependence on foreign oil. Similar blueprints from then seem to be on today’s laptops of American Automotive genius’s! Why do they always want to create cars that look like they should be driven by E.T.? Do the clods t the drafting board ever step foot in a car? Are they the pencil necked geeks from grade-school that could readily offer the numerical sequence for Pi, yet not be able to color coordinate their clothes? These odd fellows always got a super-wedgie from the class bully while the rest of the student body cackled and egged-on such crack-challenging demonstrations. Can someone hanging from the highest yardarm by the elastic of their underwear really inspire any response other than the label “unimaginative Goober?”

The only auto ever to come close to acceptance appeared to be a bubble-mobile on steroids. This hideous design of the 1970’s AMC Pacer, much in the same vein as the new green friendly garbage they are trying to pass off as acceptable, was something akin to a pregnant VW bug that had spread out its hips and been adorned with more window space than a glass house. It was gas efficient however. Thus this notion that consumers will drive anything if it gets fifty miles to the gallon was born. These modern super sub- compact cars remind one of the glass enclosed phone booth that became known as the Pope-mobile.

The difference between the unsightly Pacer and today’s gruesome pod-sized atmosphere- friendly designs is that the Pacer seemed to be made out of metal. The modern death traps that the industry is offering a nervous public seem too lightweight. They could fly if each passenger put an arm out of a window at the same time. That might be necessary given the limited creature comforts, such as space, that these mechanized midgets present. They do not inspire safety, or an esthetically pleasing sense of taste. They completely ignore the cool factor.

Guys who thought being seen behind the wheel of a soccer-mom sporty van shudder when they see the Mork from Ork motor vehicles that salivating granola munching environmentalists seem to favor in the current crop of earth friendly autos. These cars from mars remind one of the Merry Melodies cartoons of ages past featuring Marvin the Martian. He was about as popular as the Edsel too! He didn’t drive a car, but in a turnabout with Bugs Bunny, Marvin would be the instigator of antics that the poor rabbit endured trying to save the Earth from the odd looking Martian. The zany antics come to mind when one views the designs of the “inventive offerings’ of modern earth-favorables from the auto industry. Like Marvin we might seek destruction of the earth rather than its salvation after we spend any time squished in one of these modern mechanical monstrosities. The feeling inspired by their appearance and performance is a desire to drive the ever so clean, fuel efficient, four-wheeler, off nearest cliff.

Muscle cars represented power and the zenith of American status. The whimpering, sniveling, fuel efficient, friendly-fueled, bug-sized design of the future needs an appropriate moniker that captures the essence of tomorrows driving experience. No longer referred to as the bug-eyed bubble-mobile we can simply refer to it as “The Marvin.”

WHO'S THE DOG?

We have a new puppy in our house. A decade of fighting against the inevitable, down the drain! My mind was against a pet for so long because my daughter wasn’t old enough or responsible enough to clean up after herself let alone another living creature.

A few months ago out of sheer chance we attended a family function complete with new puppies. Damn the family! Finally mom and dad relented and consented. Alas, another hungry mouth to feed at home.

She is a loving creature, but much more of a baby than our daughter use to be in her infancy. When we leave the house and puppy stays behind. She whines like Rocker Axl Rose trying to hit notes three octaves too high. She sort of sounds like an alley cat on steroids hanging from a cliff or Rod Steward after a regular night on the town; which is kinda the same thing. I like a little noise to make sure I still have my hearing, but the only kind of high pitched whining I want to hear is one that is calling out God’s name. Its the one that always has my neighbors whispering to each other when my wife and I reappear from our house.

The new puppy follows the Mrs. Around like she’s a baby duckling. She is afraid of my manly voice, and of course she pays little attention to her true owner; our “I swear I’ll take care of her” daughter!

When we go outside the puppy must follow. When we go in the bathroom the dog is there. When we hit the sack the new addition is between us. I like a little affection as much as the next guy, but our home is quite warm so I’m not really looking for a three-dog-night. We never let our daughter sleep with us when she was a child, but the dog gets away with everything.

She chews up shoes. and doesn’t get spanked. She chews up electrical power cords, and doesn’t get electrocuted. She eats pens like they were bon-bons, and I swear she laughs at us whenever our backs are turned.

There is a critical part in the movie “When Harry Met Sally” when Harry (Billy Crystal) explains to Sally (Meg Ryan) that he slept with her out of pity, effectively ruining their friendship. He says she had looked up at him with those big sad puppy dog eyes in her moment of weakness. “What was I suppose to do?” he asks her. Is one of us supposed to be a dog in this scenario?” she boils. "Yes you are" he replies. “I’m the dog?” she says repeatedly angry, and not believing her ears. Sex for almost any reason, even pity, will get men into trouble. The same may be true in the dog world.

Outside on a leash our puppy romps after birds, barks and whines at passing dogs and longs to enjoy the good life. It puts me in mind of my own youth. The older I get the younger everyone else looks, especially women. It is a place where I can no longer go! When I was growing up all of the attractive ladies were just that, ladies. They were at least in their 20’s. As every decade has passed the sleek bodies and trim waistlines have garnered more and more of my attention. The problem is that they have gotten progressively sexier and much younger too.

Madonna and Brittany Spears are to blame for pointing out that fourteen year old Lolita's can be in every household. Now there are girls that are not even teenagers that look like those “women” I use to adore looking at when I was twelve. Unfortunately today they are the twelve year olds!

My daughter played soccer this fall and her teammates, all 10 and 11 year olds, had a higher proportion of boobs per capita than any group of girls has a right to claim. It worries me for our future, mine and the dog.

Is it wrong to notice these things, or is it more improper to be pushing sex upon our young children? Is it improper to keep introducing steroids into our food supply (beef, and pork) that causes these young girls to have bigger chests than Dolly (Parton not the family cow)? The same chemicals create little girls with tushies large enough to make Sir-Mix-A-Lot sing! heck the food contamination is spread so evenly even the boys are getting boobs!

Perhaps it is that I am observant, or maybe I’m turning into a dirty old man. The problem is that I’m not that old. Old keeps getting older, the older I get!

In the puppy’s world, owners have to be careful because the males know when a bitch comes into heart. Since I hit middle age, I have the same keen canine sense when it comes to that sort of lady. I should be worried, but I’m too preoccupied with every curve and the wiggle that goes with them.

As it turns out what I notice most now is that which is not available to me. The skirt chasing days were put to bed when I woke up from a foggish stupor uttering the words “I do.” Still in my older years I can put my sniffer to the wind and find the red hot mammas. Oh yes it is well known in my house; I’m the dog.!