How's My Driving?
The above was an awesome (well, maybe not so much that) and confusing bumper sticker I saw on my way to Hyannis. It was funny-- while the first half was just boring black and white printing, the second half was really dramatic, with a dripping blood font. But, of course, the more important bit was that it made no sense. I spent the rest of the car ride (well, about five minutes) joking about what it could possibly mean. I figured that there could be about four options:
- The reason he's presumably driving so terribly is that he's afraid of something. Like, maybe there's some sketchy dude in the backseat with a hook instead of a hand and a rusty knife. Like in all those urban legends. But, you know, he (the person driving) is such a great guy that he just felt so bad about almost slamming into you and he just had to explain. He hopes you won't be too mad at him.
- He's afraid of your reaction to his mad driving skillz (and yet, against all odds, his heart still yearns-- needs, even, to know).
- He is afraid of your reaction to his driving, and that fear is making him drive badly (he's a very nervous fellow, you see).
- He wants to know what you think of his driving, and he's also terrified, but the two aren't related. He'd really wanted to get two bumper stickers, but could only afford one for some really depressing reason. Like, he had a sick hermit crab at home and all of the money he makes working in the coal mines, save two dollars, is going into buying medicine to keep little Hermie alive. So, sure, he has black lung (pa) from the coal mines, but he's such a nice guy that he doesn't care about himself. Just Hermie. Oh, and bumper stickers. The poor thing.
I actually had hermit crabs when I was a little kid. For, like, a day. Back when I was six, seven, eight, we were always at the the beach. Seriously, we'd go every single day during summer vacation. And there were always loads of hermit crabs. We'd catch them and force them to live in drippy castles with moats for a few hours or until the tide came back in. Sometimes we'd make them hang with other bigger crabs, but only if one of my brothers caught them because I was too afraid of getting pinched to pick one up. The poor hermits.
Once in a while (like twice, maybe, ever) we'd get to take them home with us. I'm sure the hermit crabs were overjoyed. Seriously, what animal used to the freedom of the sea and long jetties wouldn't be totes stoked to spend the rest of its days in a pail and be fed seaweed (do they even eat seaweed?) by an overeager seven year old?
I remember this one time we were swimming, and there were a ton out. They were just everywhere, and we caught like eighty (or twentyish, but we could have caught eighty if we'd wanted). Instead of, as we usually did, leaving them to fend for themselves in their drippy castle fortresses, I put them in a clear plastic bucket with some sand, rocks, and water. When we got home, I put them on my dresser, wicked excited that I finally finally finally had pets. The next morning, when I woke up, I cheerfully trotted over to check on them. Annnnnd... they were all dead.
They probably committed suicide.