I’ve always loved cars.
The Mercedes 500K SR for sheer beauty. The Chrysler 300C for being the first to break 300 horses. The ’61 Corvette Convertable because, well, what’s more American than a ‘Vette or a convertable? The Dodge Viper proves that a car can do more than replace a penis, it can look like one. The ’69 Cadi because the only other thing that looks this good in red, I get to marry. Hummer — ’nuff said. The ’77 Benz 450SL, because it saved my life in a crash.
But none of that explains why I just love cars, period. Fortunately, George Will knows:
Some Americans (let us avoid the term “liberals”) hate fun, such as cheeseburgers, talk radio, guns, Las Vegas and cars that are larger than roller skates and that look more interesting than shoeboxes. They hated 1950s cars that looked — as a sniffy critic said — like jukeboxes on wheels. Such people love guilt, and want people to feel guilty about cars because cars have made possible suburbs, Wal-Mart, McDonald’s and emancipation from public transportation.
And I made it through the whole post without a single Volvo joke.