Quick note before continuing. I have discovered that I'm going to use the word bumper sticker a lot throughout this post. I'm going to, from now on, refer to bumper sticker with the singular acronym B. S. Any similarity to any already extisting acronyms is purely coincidental (and hilariously appropriate). Let's try it: the B. S. is prevalent throughout American roadways.
Ha. It tickles.
Here we stand, at the yawning mouth of the 21st century, and in the same breath that people decry American-made socialism and bemoan the impending loss of individualism, they buy assembly-line-made bumper stickers that decry American-made socialism and bemoan the impending loss of individualism. Maybe they even fist bump their neighbors when they return home to the delightful surprise that their neighbor has the exact same bumper sticker.
I'll assume you catch the irony there.
Back to the task at hand. B. S. owners are not just people who decry socialism and so on. No, it's parents who have children on the honor roll, or parents who don't have children on the honor roll, or parents who have children who could beat up other people's children who are on the honor roll. It's people who believe in Jesus or Darwin, people who love bands or hate bands. It's people who love their granddogs.
I have to stop there. I saw that last B. S. at a gas station near my apartment. Let's examine this B. S. in a tangent I'm going to call "Making Assumptions About Complete Strangers Based on Automobile Decor". Assume that this is the lone B. S. on the granddog-lover's car. This means if the owner has dogs of their own, they are not worthy of B. S. Their grandchildren are similarly unworthy. And perhaps most tellingly, the children are also left in the lurch, no thoughts of B. S. reminders that they are loved to keep them warm through the cold, lonely winter of their adulthood.
Hm. That sounds even more bitter with the acronym.
Anyway, this is not the point. The point is, B. S. wasn't always on our cars. We weren't always so open about our niche interests and compulsions. But here we are, practicing a kind of corporate-sponsored collectivism. All B. S. owners are tacitly claiming membership in a group who not only agree with them, but are willing to inflict knowledge of this membership on their fellow drivers. What happened to wanting to speak for yourself? What happened to wanting to say something original? When did we ever go so far from espousing our American creativity, and decide to shell out money for some anonymous writer to be (not) creative for us? And why do I always feel so compelled to read those stupid things myself?
So I say, our cars are nothing more than hunks of plastic and metal made only to hurtle at unsafe speeds across levened surfaces. They are not billboards. They are not the media of your proclivities, political leanings, ideologies, pet peeves, interests, platitudes, or admonitions. If you want to say something, say something yourself. If you want to have a thought, think it yourself (for another dose of irony, keep an eye out for B. S. that admonishes you to think for yourself). If you want to espouse a belief, particularly a strong one, do not demean its weight by paying for something that an anonymous writer scribbled out in a pique of half-thought. I don't want to learn from some car that the owner hates Barack Obama or Dick Cheney. I don't care. And don't feed me some B. S. defense that I should ignore it if I don't like it. I can't: it's not the message of the B. S. that offends me. It is the presence of it. B. S. is colorful and eye-catching, easy to use and hard to ignore. It appeals to that side of us that wants to belong, and easily. To join some group that requires a quick slap of magnet on metal, or dollars in hand, or ear to the radio. That, my friends, is the essence of B. S.