I Hate Your Vanity Plate

By Matt Davis – April 22, 2009

I hold a strong abhorrence toward vanity plates. I assume my irritation towards them is fomented by the dangerous combination of puerile wit and road rage. I realize these outward expressions of nothingness are often beloved tokens of the daily commute of those that propagate this contextless wordgame on society.

However for those of us wishing your alphanumeric 7 character phrase game to die off quicker than you change lanes mid-intersection, it is merely a window into your being we use to catapult grandiose assumptions on your personal life.

Doing minor code breaking to learn that you’re “Daddy’s Little Girl” (DdsLGrl) while I sit behind you in traffic for 10 minutes assuming you are going straight through the intersection and patiently waiting for those in front of you, only to have you turn left sans-turnsignal, no longer leaves me thinking you’re merely daddy’s little girl.

In fact it tells me you are self-absorbed and clueless to those around you. Operating without cause or purpose you act upon your whims with complete disregard to anyone who isn’t you and recoil quite perplexed at the thought of anyone’s attempted reprimand to these action. You are a special magical perfect princess and you know that others should cater to your whims, and be grateful for getting to do so, even though said whims are devoid of logical though. Your daddy reinforced these beliefs and sent you off down the evolutionary path to become the termagant he subconsciously always knew you could be… your mother.

That’s at least one scenario of inner-dialogue anyway.

This very type of inner-dialogue is representative of how I see vanity plates: as a keyhole into the individual’s Id that allows me to expound exponentially through any number of terse thoughts.

And then, I had a picture of this license plate sent to be:

God Loves DP - Daviscomedy.com

If you can’t read that it says, quite beautifully: “God Loves DP.”

Now, I realize that the pious vain bastard driving the car may merely have the initials “D.P.” And he longs to inform the motorized world how the supposed creator of everything keeps a special locket containing his picture on the dainty metal chain around His neck.

But somewhere much deeper in my core, in a place closest to the strings of my joy-harp, I long for this to mean what I (and the person sending it to me, and everyone I’ve shown it to since) interpreted it to mean:
” God Loves Double Penetration.”
I don’t care how this person drives, as long as when they get into an accident there are three cars involved.