A Bumper Crop

I drove my kids to camp the other day, and you will never guess whose car was in front of us. That’s right, Cindy!

I knew this because it said so right on her license plate, proudly announcing CINDY, so I couldn’t miss it. Cindy has two daughters, two dogs, and one fish, according to the adorable sticker on the bottom left hand corner of her rear window. One of those daughters must be a really good student, if that bumper sticker from her elementary school is to be believed. And one of them is big into cheerleading, since I doubt Cindy put that magnet on her gas tank cover for herself. Cindy is a devoted Christian, a believer in the truth, so sayeth the fish decal. She continues to show her support for McCain and Palin, never mind that the election ended over half a year ago. Cindy likes Disney World. Me too, Cindy!

The back of my car paints a very different picture. I have a few band stickers I bought at concerts I have attended over the past few years. One of my friend’s husband commented that my car looked like it was driven by a sixteen year old. Sure, from the back maybe. But my stickers are all mine, not a testament to my need to feel superior through my children’s accomplishments or my political or religious views. They also help me find my car in the parking lot.

But enough about me, let’s get back to Cindy. Why would she think that sharing so much about herself on her car while driving so crappily is a good idea? Does she think advertising her name, her family size and activities, and even her locale based on her kid’s school is a safe thing? Maybe she doesn’t worry about that because of her faith. Or maybe she is an idiot.

She is hardly alone. No, Cindy is in good company. It seems half my town feels the need to share their census information, religious and political views, and even their sexual orientation on the backs of their cars. I can see the family demographics illustrated with stick figures, pirate heads, and even flip flops. Not only do I know how many dogs they have, I know the breeds. If I were a serial killer, I wouldn’t have to do any lurking or spying, since everything is laid out for me nice and neatly on each person’s vehicle. I would know exactly where to park my late model white van with the back windows blacked out. It would be next to Cindy’s car.

Remember the good old days, when bumper stickers were amusing and slightly offensive? Keep on truckin’? I brake for unicorns? My other car is another car? If this van is a’rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’? Those gave way to the Baby on Board signs and Garfields suctioned cupped to the inside windows, which in turn gave way to the road rage inducing stickers. How many times do you remember seeing Calvin peeing on a rival sports team logo, or How’s my driving? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT? Bumper stickers were vengeful, and reading them was supposed to make you as angry as the owner of the car you were tailgating.

But now it’s just personal. It’s all about your children, who you voted for, what god you worship, even personalized RIP stickers so you can memorialize your loved ones on your rear bumper, in case you ever forget. I am waiting for the day, which I know is coming soon, when I can learn the blood type , social security number, and insurance group numbers of the other car’s drivers by looking at a bumper sticker, which I predict will be included in your next State Farm bill, to make exchanging information at your next accident even more convenient.

Until then, drive safely, Cindy!