They're trying-- oh, how they're trying-- to make us think that the minivan is *gulp*... cool.
They're trying to make us watch a commercial or look at an ad featuring a minivan and think about... um... sex?
I don't know. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's just because I've never had sex inside a minivan, but I just can't muster up the genital fortitude to think about sex when thinking about a minivan. Here's what I do think of when I think about mini-vans:
Sorry-- my mind's wandering. But did you hear about the parishioners who were exposed to Hep-A over Christmastime from nastid-up communion wafers? Whoa, right?
Anyway, sorry. It's just that I can't quite seem to get myself in the mood about the minivan. I can't get all hot-n-bothered about the minivan. I can't get all feathered in my nethers. Quite apart from being anonymous trapezoids on wheels, I just don't understand, and I never understood, the need for them. On "Car Talk" a couple of weeks ago, some schlep from Ohio or somewhere like that called in and said something that irked the shit out of me. He was like, "Well, we have two kids now, and so we knew we needed to get a minivan."
Cracka say wha?
Since when is having two kids an automatic death-sentence to minivandomhood? People have been bustin' out vag-puppies for centuries and centuries over and over and transporting them here and there with very little difficulty. Vagabonds, gypsies, even the Neanderthals figured out how to do it without the trusty Town & Country.
According to an article yesterday's New York Times, "Minivans Avoid That Name in Search of a Sporty Image."
Ah, the branding monster rears its ugly, pernicious head. Folks, it doesn't matter what you call it: the C-Max, the Sienna, the Odyssey: it's a fucking minivan. I don't care how many cupholders you shove in it or how many flatscreen TVs you jam in there, how many coolers or stowage units. You can swath the seats in Alcantara hide and burled walnut on the dash-- it is what it is.
Or is it?
The commercials with the balding, bearded d-bag and the slim-n-trim blonde wife and their Toyota Sienna are credited with an 18.5% sales increase. Does the new Sienna look that different from the previous incarnation?
Well, let's see.
Here's the Toyota Sienna in 2011:
And here it is in 2008:
Hm. Gee. They're both... so.... uh.... sexy.
Excuse me... I just.... I just need a couple minutes, um.... alone....
Okay, I'm back and all toweled off. Composed and dry enough, in fact, to compose a short list of things that have also been recently deemed sexy.
I know. I've gotten in deep shit horsing around about diabetes in the past. Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment bringing up this infamous footwear, but, according to a CBS Gallup Poll, diabetic shoes are the sexiest things for feet since blue suede shoes. Think of them as platform shoes for the elderly.
I wish I knew enough about Calculus to make Calculus-being-sexy jokes, but the simple fact of the matter is that I never took Calculus and I wouldn't recognize a Caluclus equation if it bought me flowers and started hobbing my knob. The point is: Calculus is sexy again-- especially when you call it "Calc." Grrrrrrrrrrowwwl!
Nothing says "hawt" like a spicy night on the couch while you and your lover run dusty, pink fingers through hair and over breast. That sickly, salty breath, the shells between the sofa cushions-- oh, man-- the aphrodisiac of 2011 is totes mcgoats pistachio nuts. You heard it here first, lovers.
The 1976 Plymouth Valiant
Need I say more? This thing is so sexy it could compete with today's minivan. Hell, imagine if a 2011 Honda Odyssey fucked a 1976 Plymouth Valiant. Why, they might just have the sexiest looking offspring you could ever imagine. It might look something like this:
Oh, yeah-- that reminds me. He's sexy again, too.