I happened upon this site back in my old college days, by which I mean two years ago, and the ire of both Hummer advocates and Hummer protesters confused me. The topic of conversation was a car, after all, and how much controversy could erupt over a car? We have the right to purchase whatever automobile we desire, and the freedom to do so runs parallel with civil rights and equal employment opportunities, right? Right?
I’m not so sure anymore. In the past two weeks I’ve shared the road with no more than three Hummers, all three of which annoyed exactly as advertised. For a moment, let’s forget about the low gas mileage and allegedly poor emissions. These babies are just frickin’ enormous, so much so that two-lane streets basically halve into a single lane, especially when the pilot insists on sampling both lanes. I suppose it’s possible to maneuver these amazing machines within the confines of, you know, THE GODDAMN YELLOW LINES, but perhaps that would violate another right I’ve yet to discover.
If you read the hate mail poured upon the site, you’ll discover that most Hummer apologists aren’t the shiniest pennies in the stack. Affluent and sporty as they may seem, you get the impression that somewhere between drinking their doubleshot mocha java chocaccino and playing Ultimate Frisbee, they tripped on their twice-shredded Abercrombie jeans and swallowed the frisbee. That’s a disservice to Ultimate, and I love the sport, but you get the point.
This is probably an unfair characterization, and to that end I’ve devised the perfect rationalization for owning a Hummer. We’re at war. I just didn’t know better. I’m not talking about Iraq or the war on terrorism. I’m referring to the War on the Greater Chicago-Metro Area, which necessitates that I purchase a faux military grade vehicle. I went to Old Navy the other day, innocently believing that they sold clothes and clothes alone. The happy music and 60’s decor obviously masked a far more urgent agenda: the housing of a mighty battalion of seaworthy, albeit antiquated warships. The dock entrance was possibly in the fitting room, I don’t know. And The Cheesecake Factory? I thought they manufactured tasty cheesecake, but they’ve been rumored to make sinister weapons and crab cakes as well.
I should go buy a Hummer. Now. When the war subsides, I’ll trade it in for a Porsche, some Ferragamo threads, maybe even Dolce and Gabbana’s nail clippings.
I’m up to my neck in Google keywords right now, gentle reader, so I’ve got nothing but work on the brain. Staying late is a ritual I hope to repeat very rarely, but truth be told there’s something fun about digging up popular searches.
For instance, one of the bajillion promotionals we’re running is a giveaway for The Return of the King. Rather than guessing how millions of people are querying the movie, you’re better off using the built-in tool provided by Google, which lists the most popular keywords related to a subject. Type in “Lord of the Rings” and it will display hundreds of keywords: character names, actors’ names, actresses’ names, basically anything anybody could ever conceive.
After collecting a few hundred terms, I thought it’d be clever to type in individual character names to yield even more keywords. I entered the name “Aragorn,” Viggo Mortensen’s swashbuckling character in the movie, and what I saw boggled my mind. On one hand, I found pretty tame keywords such as “Aragorn pics,” “Aragorn’s sword,” “Viggo Aragorn,” and other ho-hum terms. On the other hand, I found “Aragorn foot fetish.” That’s right, Aragorn foot fetish.
At that precise second, under a rainy and darkening English sky, Tolkien’s undead hand probably burst through the firmament in an indignant fist. There is no way in hell, or in Middle Earth, that Tolkien ever predicted his literary imaginings would give birth to such a fetish. And for the love of hobbits, do you realize that a sizeable minority lusts for Aragorn’s toes, perhaps at this very moment? We’re not talking about a single bespectacled fan furtively Googling for forbidden search terms, nor are we talking about two fans sharing a keyboard in their deviant quest. We’re talking about hundreds, maybe thousands, of would-be Gollums tapping away at keyboards stained bright with Cheetos.
If you step back and think about it, the search term doesn’t even make sense. I don’t recall Aragorn skipping barefoot through the countryside during any of the nine hours of film. Do you? I don’t want to know the answer to that question. Now, the hobbits didn’t own any shoes–it wasn’t part of their culture or something–and there lies sweet, sweet refuge for these Aragorn fans. Do you hear me, Aragorn fans? Frodo had UNSHOD feet, hairy even. I mean, shit.
After a solid year of driving, I’ve developed a special bond with my car. I haven’t gone so far as to name it, and thus we’ll call it the Nameless One, but I have nurtured an unspoken agreement with it. I keep the Nameless One filled with premium gas; it takes me wherever I want to go. I purchase the Nameless One new tires occasionally; it helps me zoom past those fetid Hummers, a subject we’ll consider another day. I bring in the Nameless One for an oil change every ten- to fifty-thousand miles; it promises to start.
That’s enough “I’s” and semicolons for today, so let’s cut straight to the chase. The one thing that would elevate this relationship to dizzying heights is simple: the Nameless One must get rid of its FRICKNASTY SPOILER. If we were talking about driving, say, back in 1989, then perhaps this appendage would attract women like no other pheromone, organic or alloyed. I suspect you’d only need to drive a mile or two, look in your rearview mirror, and pay witness to six or seven hotties glued unreasonably to your spoiler. Some would have their tongues embarrassingly fused to the damn thing, while others would have their hair hopelessly entangled around your speed enhancer.
Unfortunately, we’re not living in 1989. De-spoilering a car, auto enthusiasts would likely argue, is akin to declawing a cat. It’s unnatural. Inhumane. Illegal. But it’d just feel so good.