Not My Asphalt

Last week I had a statistically predicted car accident. En route to work a
BMW ran a red light directly in my path. We collided.

Now here I am with a bruised knee, worried parents, and a rental car. A giant,
stale smelling, behemoth of a car.

Correction: an American car! American cars are most definitely the epitome of
American.

Larger than they need to be, louder than they ought be, and uglier than what
should be allowed. And as a rental it brings with it all the baggage of a desperate
blind date on February 15. I believe the previous renter must have lived a hermit's
lifestyle exclusively in the car. It smells of cheap cigarettes and failed dreams.
The radio presets offer equal insight into the vehicle's sordid past. All stations
are pure static. Meaning that whomever last drove the car was obviously deafened
by his own defeat and to whom music was no solace. I also found that any American
automotive consumer is forced to drive exclusively from a sleeping position.
Even when the seat is in a full-upright and locked position I still need to
crawl, climb, and hoist myself up to even see the dashboard. I suppose this
is beneficial in the now-inevitable accident as the driver would merely crumble
into the fetal position under the steering wheel. Coincidentally where the pool
of urine used to be.

All of the knobs and buttons have been placed through-out the car in a random order that had to have been devised by Chaos itself.

The radio buttons all do the same function; make the terror coming from the
sound system louder. Want to play some music? Great, so long as you love treble
and hate bass. Need the high-beams? No problem, they're always on, even
when the engine isn't. Need a light for your smokes? Don’t worry,
it's the only thing that's clearly labeled on the dash; more obvious
and accessible than the wheel itself.

I'm not saying that American cars are horrible because they made by Americans. Far from it. Instead, I'm saying they're horrible because they're made for Americans. They're the American ideal. Bigger than you what need, louder than you can handle, heavier than they should be, and all painfully, painfully identical.