You all will recall a few months ago when the United States Government instituted an economic stimulus program affectionately called “Cash for Clunkers”. Depending on your point of view this effort by the government to both stimulate the economy and benefit the environment was either a wildly successful return on the investment of taxpayer money or an abject failure on par with the embarrassment and disgrace of the 1995 Brady Bunch Movie.
I’m not one to care much about varying points of view so I didn’t hesitate to cash in my clunker then clunk the shit out of the cash I got to buy a new car. Oh, I hear what you’re saying – “How dare you take my taxpayer money to buy a new car, you selfish prick!” - I’m just not listening.
Here are the facts: prior to clunking it, my car was a 2000 Jeep Cherokee Sport I purchased off my brother in 2002, it had long ago rolled over 100,000 miles, the air conditioning stopped working 3 years ago, the blinkers would only work intermittently and usually when I didn’t need to actually turn, after driving more than 5 miles it would smell like someone was baking a dirty underwear pot roast in the engine, AND it got less than 15 miles to the gallon. Plus, in the best-case scenario it was only worth $2,500 at trade in. So maybe I am a selfish prick for taking $4,500 of your money to buy a new car but whatever, I have a badass new car now.
I deliberated long and hard on which non-American vehicle I would purchase with your money before I settled on the Mini Cooper Clubman. Clearly trading in a Jeep Cherokee for a Mini required a big lifestyle change for me. No more runs to Home Depot for 8 sheets of drywall, twelve 2x4’s and a half ton of gravel. Still, before I made the final plunge I needed to be certain I could haul at least a portion of my typical HD bounty so the wife and I went to test drive a Mini and promptly brought it back to the house where I conveniently had a big sheet of plywood that we threw on top of the luggage rack to make sure it fit. It did. And I’m not kidding,
For those not familiar with Cash for Clunkers, the old car had to be traded in one-for-one with a new car, meaning I couldn’t order a custom Mini, the dealer had to find one on his lot or another lot in America that met my specifications: Black, automatic, badass.
So a week later my Mini arrived so I went to ink the papers and clunk my Jeep to the great big recycling center in the sky, if by “sky” I mean “China”. Just prior to signing, the sales guy was like, “You wanna go look at it real quick?” I did, se we did. It looked sharp and I couldn’t have been more excited… until I was like, “Hey man, it looks like this car is a manual…”
“It sure is,” he replied.
It had been a long time since I’d seen someone actually empty their bowels into their pants right in front of my eyes. In that moment when the sales guy realized I wanted an automatic and he procured a manual, I’m pretty sure he didn’t just empty his bowels; I think he emptied his entire abdomen into his pants.
The thing was, I would have loved nothing more than to take that manual car but it had been 5 years since I’d driven a stick and even then I originally learned in about 30 minutes in a Wal-mart parking lot in the middle of California one night when I was drunk. I was confident I could pick it up again fairly quickly but my dilemma in that exact moment was, how in the fuck was I going to get that car off the lot? My options were limited: 1) Call a friend to come drive my new car home; 2) Have the shit-wad sales guy drive me home; 3) Run across the street to Applebees, get drunk as fast as possible, and try to recreate the exact situation in which I originally learned to drive stick in order to drive it home myself. None of those options were ideal.
Plus, ultimately I knew that I suddenly had a lot of leverage against the dealership. The sales guy knew he was stuck between a rock and shitty place; I knew he was stuck between a rock and shitty place; and he knew I knew he was stuck between a rock and a shitty place.
So he collected his intestines back into his body, scrambled to find me another similar but not exact car on the lot, I told him to cut the price on it, he shit his pants a little again, and I drove off in a new Mini Cooper Clubman having used your tax money and the dealer’s “oh shit” money to make it all happen.
I will say, the Mini has been a ton of fun but since acquiring it my manliness quotient has definitely taken a bit of a loss. Most dudes are like, “You drive a Mini? Huh…” with a facial expression that suggests they’re thinking, “Wow, you are a raging douche,” as they’re wondering if I’m also getting manicures and sleeping with teddy bears now. Most chicks are like, “You drive a Mini? Oh that is so cute…” but not like, “You are so cute for driving a Mini,” more like, “That Mini is so cute and I would look super cute driving it myself…”
I thought for sure even if my manliness took a little hit, the Mini would contribute beautifully to my hipster image, and it has, sort of. I’ll drive up somewhere and see the hipsters thinking to themselves, “Well now, who is this new hipster on the block?” Then I’ll get out of the car and see their expression change, “Oh, he is so not a hipster in those relaxed-fit jeans. I wouldn’t even donate one of my extra gratuitously low-cut-v-neck-t-shirts to his hipster cause. Please…”
Plus another demographic that really doesn’t care for my new acquisition is the all-American redneck population. The first time I pulled into the gas station to fill up I actually had to run into the convenience store to make a purchase. I passed the gas station attendant on the way in and she said, “Those look like toys.” Not sure what in the hell she was referring to, I paused and said, “I’m sorry?”
“Them cars… they look like toys,” she said, nodding towards the Mini.
“Yeah,” I said back, “It kind of does… except it’s not a toy. In fact, it’s actually a badass motoring death machine made out of steel, rubber, and leather, capable of speeds up to 160 MPH with enough horsepower to burn another shit stain into your granny panties. In fact, it’s kind of like how that cigarette you’re smoking looks like candy but it’s not; it’s an emphysema and cancer filled death stick. Looks can be deceiving like that can’t they?”
Obviously I didn’t actually say that, but on a side note, is it just me or does it seem like the only question on a gas station attendant’s job application is, “Are you willing to smoke cigarettes within 15’ of an active fueling station amid highly flammable and explosive petrol fumes,” and if you answer yes you automatically get the job? Then if you answer yes to the follow up question, “Are you also willing to talk on your cell phone while smoking a cigarette within 15’ of an active fueling station?” you automatically get promoted to manager?
Regardless of the image limbo I now find myself in, one thing all the various demographics are thinking when they see the Mini for better or worse is, “Wow, this guy is real hippie-socialist-Euro-trash.” Whatever, I’m fine with that. Just wait til my Union Jack banana hammock arrives in the mail, then we’ll talk about who’s really Euro trash.
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