The Right to Drive a Miata

So... today I (fortunately, divinely, appointedly) happened to see one of the most outrageously inexplicable paradoxes of all time; I mean, it was even more shocking than Jennifer Lopez marrying the medical cadaver above (with the Soul-Glow perm). I honestly believe that Providence directed my every step today just so I could bear witness to this mind-blowing phenomenon. It was a scene so completely devoid of logic, so wholly lacking in credibility, that I almost missed its blatant irony. And so, it is with much gratitude, that I now relay this event to you:

I was waiting for a stoplight this afternoon behind an otherwise insignificant car driven by an otherwise insignificant man. Now, this was not just any car this man was driving; this dude was driving a hunter green Miata (with the top down).

Unfortunately, I could only get a solid look at the back of the guy's head, so I can't offer you much physiological description; BUT, I can conclusively tell you that the dude in question was rocking an illustrious mane: it seriously looked as if homeboy was headed to an audition for Dynasty (it was a coiffure very similar to the feathered mullet Jefferson Darcy wore on Married With Children).

Now, my intention is not to take a cheap shot at the notion of men driving Miatas. This moment would not necessarily hold any inherent humor if what I've just told you was the totality of what I witnessed.

I mean, for all I know, the driver in question could very well have been nothing more than a down-on-his-luck-dude whose car had broken down that morning and who was, consequently, stuck driving his wife's car. I mean, in the mid-90's my mom had a Miata; and my dad often drove the diminutive little bullet when his car was in the shop (and trust me, follically speaking, my dad could easily have passed for either Max Weinberg or Scott Baio). There are any number of scenarios for how/why this man was driving a Miata today. Maybe he just likes Miatas; who knows?

No, the humor did not lie (directly) in either the man's car or his (perfect) hair. And due to the changing of the light, I almost missed the true magic of the moment. But, thankfully, just as the red light changed to green, I happened to look down at the man's bumper.

And right there, pasted just above his license tag like a poster of Brad Pitt over Sen. Larry Craig's dresser, was a bumper sticker that read:

Guns Kill People...
Just Like Spoons Make Rosie O'Donnell fat

I swear to you: this is true. Down to the very wording of the bumper sticker (I know this is the proper rendering because I immediately grabbed a pen and and copied the slogan verbatim).

Now, I hope I don't need to spell out the moment's irony. The unspoken dichotomy of the scene is, in fact, almost epic in proportion. Seeing a Miata with a pro-arms bumper sticker is akin to hearing Michael Vick cite Old Yeller as his favorite book. It's like walking into a Biker bar in podunk South Carolina and finding Barry Mannilow's "Copa Cabana" playing on the juke box.

Listen, I'm totally impartial on the whole gun control issue. As far as I'm concerned, if someone wants to believe that our nation's right to bear arms is what makes societal violence so pervasive, then I'm happy to consider their logic (I suspect there is a decent measure of truth in that argument). But if someone wants to pull out his shotgun and pop a couple nutcase activists protesting on his property, I suppose I'm all for that, too.

But despite my indifference on the issue, I do know one thing for sure... if I were staunchly in favor of gun control, I'd probably move far away from the rural South (and I doubt I'd wear any camouflage hats or mount any seven-point bucks anywhere in my house). And if I were staunchly opposed to gun control, I'd probably wear lots of Old Spice deodorant and bathe my face in Brut aftershave... and then I'd probably elect to drive something other than a hunter green Miata.

But, then again, if I had the cojones to rock a 70's-style-porn-mullet, I guess I wouldn't be very worried about other people's perceptions, would I?

I suppose if I had the cojones to rock a mullet like that then I'd just throw some soul-glow in it, hide from the sun until my skin turned the color of silly puddy, and then head for the Border and propose to Jennifer Lopez.

At which point we'd hop in my Miata and ride off into the sunset...