Kids all over Boston have graduated and are ready to move back into their parents’s basements. It also means a plethora of “man with a van” signs, a phrase that sets my teeth on edge and makes me want to grab a five pound bag of sugar to sprinkle, fairy-like, into certain gas tanks.
Instead, my therapist suggested I channel this anger. I plan to paste over all the “man with a van” posters with the following.
MAN WITH A SPORTS CAR
I wouldn’t help you move even if you paid me! I own a sports car! You want a guy with a van. Guys with vans are losers. I’m a winner. I own a sports car. I don’t do things that make me sweat. It ruins the upholstery on my seats and make me smell badly. So have fun with your sweaty, smelly van driver who probably hasn’t shaved for several days. I’ve got drive my sports car up to the Cape for a couple of days. All I’ve got room for is one fine babe and maybe a toothbrush. You’ll have to find somewhere esle to put your third-hand liquor boxes stuffed with beers cans and scratched copies of Nevermind because they most definately will not be sitting anywhere close to this fine motor vehicle.
Toot too! CYA!