WonderBread Ted

So, we got a new car last week.
“New” as in, new to us. Not “new” as in, nobody ever had sex in the back seat of it and it still smells like leather.

It was actually Brian’s brother’s car (and now that I’ve mentioned sex in the back seat, I think I need to go throw up. Awesome).

Brian’s brother recently went to Afghanistan for a year on a contract position with an engineering company. He had a car that he needed to sell, and Brian needed a car whose shocks weren’t about to desintegrate at any second, undoubtedly causing the car to careen out of control and plow into a gaggle of schoolchildren.

Volkswagen: the “Hitler” of automobiles since 1933
(and I’m not even kidding about it. Read the Wiki entry here)

So I guess the timing was ideal. Two DMV visits and multiple calls to various insurance agencies later, we had ourselves a new to us car.

Sure, it isn’t the car we ideally hoped for. Brian had his eyes set on a new Jeep Sahara hard-top for off-roading fun, and I was daydreaming of driving around in a new Nissan Frontier (Because I’ve always wanted a pick-up truck. Because I’ve always wanted an excuse to wear a cowboy hat that doesn’t involve Halloween or riding a bull). But sometimes life doesn’t work out like that, and despite your best intentions, you end up with…something else.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you:

WonderBread Ted:

So yeah, we have a Focus. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. It has decent pick-up and an MP3 connection and a moon-roof.

It’s just so….I dunno...white-boy.

And I know, I know. Last time I checked, Brian and I are white (with the exception of some sort of suspicious activity with my great great great great grandfather and a woman of African descent, according to my half-crazy grandmother, which might explain my badonkadonk and killer moves on the dance floor)

But this car.
It’s just not us.

This car belongs to a recent college grad who wears button-down shirts and slacks and works at Inatech and owns a condo and spends his weekends playing beer-pong with his friends on his Ikea dining-room table.

This car belongs to a guy who wears just a little too much gel in his hair and listens to rap (but turns the volume down when a black guy walks by) and drinks Heineken to impress the ladies with his taste for “imported” beer.

This car belongs to a guy who replaces toner cartridges and spends his vacations at the jersey shore and spends his cash on the newest plasma TV and Playstation games involving guns and those little headpieces that allow him to curse out his 10-year-old opponents in Dusseldorf, Germany.

This car DOES NOT belong to a hip, adventure-seeking firefighter and his equally hip and adventure-seeking writer wife and their two dogs, two cats, and disgruntled beta-fish. I mean, where’s the roof rack for the kayak? Where’s the hatch-back to fit our camping gear? Where are the heated seats to soothe my bruised backside after a day of snowboarding?

*sigh.

So yeah.
We have a Ford Focus.
And for all intents and purposes, it’s very nice.

I’m just not sure where I'm gonna put the damn kayak...