The Plates of Wrath

Human vanity takes many forms, from worrying about our waistlines to squandering our hard-earned on cosmetics whose only proven effect is to make their manufacturers rich. One of the more annoying forms of vanity, however, is encountered every day on the highways and byways of the suburban sprawl.

I’m talking about vanity number plates.

Seriously, who wants to know if you think you are SEXEE, or HOT2TROT? Do you think I really give a toss if you reckon your car is AWSUM or BEWDEFUL? And who cares if it belongs to SHAZZY or DEANO? I mean, is your life so empty and meaningless that you have to try an imprint some aspect of your identity on what is effectively just a tool for conveying you from one place to another?

Actually, tool might just be the operative word. Especially in respect of those sad types who chug along the freeways at 40 clicks an hour in a clapped out, mustard coloured 1975 Datsun with BEAST or SPEEDY emblazoned on the number plate. And don’t tell me they’re being ironic, either. Anyone who takes something that should properly be pulled along by a team of horses onto a freeway isn’t engaging in irony; they’re being deliberately and wilfully annoying. And festooning their crate with a vanity number plate only adds insult to injury.

And, of course, there’s the cruiser crowd. You see them in certain precincts around the city, driving up and down designated strips in their souped up Holdens and Fords, glistening bodywork offset by idiotic undercarriage lights, doof-doof music roaring at ear-splitting levels in between burn outs, donuts, and generally endangering the public at large. And, of course, there’s the obligatory vanity plates. Variations on EXXTYC and WYKEDD predominate, as well as sundry suggestions that the owner of the vehicle in question is either a reincarnation of John Holmes (you know what I mean) or else God’s gift to womanhood in general. The truth being, of course, that said rev-head is probably as endowed as a gnat, with the personality to boot.

But what makes this whole situation laughable (or sad) is that it’s just a money-spinning exercise. Some clever dick within the government has figured out what the fashion and cosmetics industries have always known: human vanity generates income. Big time. And so government being no less inured to the attractions of increased cash flow than anyone else, they have in their generosity allowed the more gullible and vainglorious among us to trade cash for a sense of their own individuality. Just like every other individual with a vanity plate. Hence the last laugh is on all those who wish to stand out; they end up looking exactly like everyone else.

However, if Yours Truly ran the world (and let’s face it, we’d all be a lot happier if I did) purchasing a vanity plate would also come with a compulsory extra, just to make abundantly clear the owner of said plate’s unique uniqueness (as distinct from the unique uniqueness of every other vanity plate owner). Anyone who bought a vanity plate could have whatever message they wanted; but they would also receive a mandatory tattoo whose content would be unvarying.

Just a single word. On their forehead. In nice, big, red capital letters.

MORON.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Let us be thankful for the fools. But for them, the rest of us could not succeed. (Mark Twain)