untitledeye: Pontiac excitement.

What’s this I see on the trunk of an old Grand Am in my parking ramp? A “Support Our Troops” ribbon? Or no — maybe it’s for something like gout awareness. As I inch a bit closer, I see it’s promoting nothing other than, yes, ROAD HEAD.

Actually, this isn’t the first thing I noticed about this vehicle. I’m surprised I even saw it, given his choice of air freshener, which featured two naked women pleasuring each other. Think less Playboy, and more Juggs.

Now, it’s pretty difficult to offend me. But seriously. What if untitledson had been with me when I parked next to this car? It’s not the end of the world if he sees it, I suppose. But really, I’d rather he not. Just like I’d rather he not find the vibrator in my nightside table and pretend it’s a microphone. Or a light saber. Or a magic wand.

I mean, what kind of motherless child adorns his vehicle with such pornography? Where does he hide his stash when he picks up his grandmother for church on Sunday? I’m thinking this car must belong to a 21-year old call center rep who rolls into work every morning with a Rock Star energy drink in one hand and a bean burrito in the other. A noxious cloud of cigarette smoke, vinegar-y booze stank and b.o. enters the room a full two minutes before he does. And I’m guessing he’s on a pussy hunt every night except Monday (which, if I’m not mistaken, is officially reserved for all self-respecting single dudes to return their empties, so they can stock up on Axe, Hungry Mans and the latest issue of “Maxim”).

This guy has chosen to put it all out there, so let me be so blunt. In your mad dash for poontang, there is one detail you have overlooked, my friend. Nothing repels a lady more than a blatant display of some other woman’s Brazilian. Things like pornographic air fresheners, garter belts, thongs, etc. suspended in your vehicle shout sexual depravation. After all, if you were getting it, you would have no need to have it hanging from your rear view mirror.

untitledeye: Return of the ghetto blaster.

Ghetto Blaster

Ta damn. I thought the age of the ghetto blaster had come and gone. But no. HEEEEEEEELL to the no.

Now I know that it’s not p.c. to call it a ghetto blaster. But I think this is one bad ass mo fo that has earned the right. Besides, calling it a boom box would be the equivalient of chopping off it grapefruit-sized balls and and pasting a Debbie Gibson sticker to its considerable casing, don’t you think?

As you can see, this specimen is equipped with what appears to be speaker spinners and twin bazooka launchers. I’m sure it is capable of making my old black and yellow Magnavox boom box (circa 1987) spontaneously spew the Hail Mary, or maybe a Martika tune (Toy Soldiers, anyone?). The last thing I’d do is bring a delinquent like this home, for I’m quite confident it would lift its leg and piss all over untitledhusband’s new video iPod.

When I stumbled across this bad boy the other day, I walked by it once, then twice, and then returned to snap a picture. To do so, I had to shoo away a 12 year-old kid who had been pulled it by the machine’s tractor beam. He was clearly creaming his pants, and I could see the numbers rolling around in his head: “If I take on two more paper routes, return all of dad’s PBR cans and steal $25 from grandma’s change jar, I might be able to swing it.”

If you’re interested in making this fine piece of electronics yours, all I can tell you is that I found it at Best Buy. I didn’t catch the model name, but I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of Annihilator or Ass Pounder or Cerebral Hemmorage. Just be careful when giving it a test listen. I’m willing to bet that the woofers alone could loosen your fillings or at the very least, render you temporarily infertile.

untitledeye: Just a good ol’ boy, never meanin’ no harm.

Here in untitledland, we’ve had quite the dumping of snow lately. The other day, untitledhusband was working from home when what does he hear but a high-pitched NEEEEEEEEEE NEEEEEEEEEE NEEEEEEEEEE coming from our normally quiet suburban street. Was his computer fan burning out? Was it a weed eater? A remote-controlled airplane? No. It was our POSTMAN — whippin’ shitties out in the street, just like a 16 year-old boy who’s stole the keys to his dad’s Miata.

Whippin' a Shitty 1

Tire Closeup

Whippin' a Shitty 2

As you can see in these pictures, he had a hard time coaxing his breadbox from house to house. He’d get within a few feet of his target when his rear end would fishtail out of control. Methinks life might easier for these guys if they outfitted the wheels with something other than pencil erasers. Unfortunately, untitledhusband did not get pictures of the other snow-related neighborhood fiasco — the girl next door who was struggling to pull her car into her parents’ driveway. He was too busy drawing all the shades and pretending not to be home. My hero.

untitledeye: Museum of Worthless Curiosities.

Feast your eyes, people. For you are about to embark upon a tour of the Museum of Worthless Curiosities. Housed in untitledmother-in-law’s guest bedroom, the MWC is a one-of-a-kind collection that has been years, if not decades, in the making. A result of crafty 4-H leaders and well-meaning relatives that just had to bring back something from their trip to the World Pork Expo, the MWC features unique artifacts that you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere else (unless you frequent the Goodwill store or church bazaars, of course).

Our first stop is Sleepy Eye, the droop-eyed owl. He is being punished, you see, for cutting macramé class and smoking too much weed. Now he spends his days hanging from a wall with a nail up his ass. From his perch, he will forever pine for his beloved bong, which he thinks may be stowed under the driver’s seat of his Camaro, right next to his Guns N Roses CD and the remnants of a petrified bean burrito. If he only knew that untitledmother-in-law mistook it for an antique hurricane lamp and placed it on the living room mantle.

Sleepy Eye the Owl - Wanna get hiiiigh???

Next up is Cat Mandu. This is one pussy that will never go to tuna town, for he has been hermetically preserved through the lost art of decoupage on what appears to be the knotty stump of a young tree. Now don’t get all misty-eyed on me. You and I both know that eventually, he would’ve ended up hacking up hairballs on the new sofa and pooping in the bedroom whenever his litter box was even the least bit soiled. Admit it. He had it coming.

Cat Mandu

Last on our tour is this calico sculpture-thingy, which we have lovingly dubbed “Cuntry Heart.” This piece was once a fashionable staple of home décor, back in the days when Juice Newton was on the radio and your favorite pair of jeans had a lace-up roller skate on the back pocket. When not on display as wall art, the heart also serves as a makeshift panty hose drying rack or even an auto-erotic asphyxiation device.

Cuntry Heart

That brings our tour of the MWC to an end. These are but a few of the artifacts that comprise the permanent collection. As your curator and docent, I will continue to post the occasional oddities for your review. And yes, in case you’re wondering, the MWC does take donations.

untitledeye: Sticker shock.

Free Tibet Bumper Sticker on Lexus SUV

OK, this just strikes me as wrong. While I believe that everyone has a right to an opinion, and that there very well may be a few rich fucks out there who have ascended to filthy stinking richness with hearts intact, I also believe that when you choose to emblazon your vehicle with a bumper sticker like this, you need to be aware of the rules.

Of which rules do I speak? Why, the Universal Rules of Bumper Stickers, of course. The URBS. Almost always unwritten, and usually unspoken, the URBS are pretty much understood by most drivers of reasonable IQ. These are the same rules that state Hummer drivers have no bizness slapping an American flag on their rear window. Likewise, they go on to explain the 10 shades of wrong at play when a 1989 Aerostar minivan, complete with a coat hanger for an antenna and honest-to-goodness Fred Flintstone floorboard action, sports a “Bush/Cheney ’04” sticker.

Bush/Cheney 04 on Ford Aerostar Minivan

So, if you have the plums to display a “Free Tibet” bumper sticker and you’re not driving a 1982 Volvo, at least make sure:

1. Your vehicle is at least more than a year old.

2. Your vehicle absolutely, positively is not a LEXUS FUCKING SUV.

If you truly understood what was going on in Tibet, you would feel like an ass, driving around in your earthfucker. Somewhere in the mountains of Tibet, monks are being massacred. Innocent children are being abducted. Prisoners are being tortured. But hey, at least you got your woodgrain cupholders and vibrating leather seats with ergonomic crotch massage action, the parts of which were undoubtedly manufactured in China (the country from which Tibet needs to be freed).

Now, I love my SUV as much as the next person. But you don’t see me polluting it with fashionable political statements. I bought my vehicle in 2000, when the only hybrids available looked less like a car and more like the Millenium Falcon. And believe me, the next vehicle I buy will be a hybrid. But until then, I will keep my gas-guzzling tail between my legs and my vehicle sticker-free until I’ve earned the right to butter it up fender to fender, and roll the muthafucka entirely in granola.