The Volkswagen “bug” is not intended for nostalgic baby boomers, in spite of what the advertisers tell you.
My husband and I dated in one many years ago, back when they were a bit of a novelty. At our current age, I doubt if we could both get into one at the same time, let alone perform any romantic acrobatics in one. The addition of 47 years of added bulk and arthritic joints has made that very unlikely.
Lately, we have been shopping for a new car. I have test driven everything from a VW Bug and a tiny Smart Car to a minivan and a huge SUV (Sport Utility Vehicle).
The Bug I drove came with the optional leather “bra” and giant eyelashes, just in case I wanted to dress it up like a flat chested hooker. I could probably get one with twirling tassels and a matching thong pantie, but then you would have to contend with all the family sedans in the neighborhood cruising past you garage all night offering it money.
I don’t know,” I said to my husband after driving it. “It is so little and cramped that I feel like a cow in it. And the horizontal stripes. Ugh. Does this car make me look fat, Honey?” He was smart enough to refuse to answer that question.
When I returned it to the dealer, hydraulics and axle grease were required to get me out of it. It brought back repressed memories of my own birth.
I worked my way up through the dealer’s stock from compacts to midsize to full size to minivans to an enormous SUV.
The enormous SUV was a revelation. I drove it for several days. That vehicle was so large that I pulled a hamstring climbing into it, then promptly got a nosebleed and air sickness.
The interior was cavernous! I referred to the cargo area as “the back 40” because it seemed spacious enough to raise crops back there. I had to drive with the windows down after the crop foreman I hired spread manure back there. The corn has sprouted up nicely and should be knee high in no time.
There is something about driving a vehicle that large that can bring out the aggression in the most docile driver At first I drove it cautiously, ever courteous to other drivers who may have been intimidated by its immensity.
But before long the power available beneath my right foot went to my head. I was driving right over curbs and small cars which did not get out of my way as quickly as I thought they should. I shot down the highway like a rocket, dragging along several small cars which had been sucked into my draft. They rattled and clattered behind me like empty tin cans behind a newlywed’s car.
I had already made an appointment with a customizer to add a machine gun turret and bulldozer tracks when I decided it might be prudent to return it before things really got out of hand.
And I will. But not until the migrant workers living in the back seat finish picking the beans. Besides, according to the Farm Bureau Report, corn is up six cents a bushel.