Bumper sticker families need no introduction. The fad de décade for mini vans and giant SUVs alike, any whip these suckers adorn is guaranteed to drive contrary to road etiquette and park like a motherfucking tree frog on acid. (Assuming that a tree frog on acid would, in fact, be capable of commandeering a full-size vehicle.)
These things have an unsettling presence in the Piedmont region. In fact, during my preparatory Google searches (which yielded the two preceding images), I noticed that all documented cases of Stick Families were found right here in the Carolinas.
If you want to mar your $60,000 Range Rover with yuppy signage (or even worse — an oversized monogram), that is your prerogative. But, just as you have the freedom to publicly display your idiocy, I have the freedom to complain about it. And complain I will.
First of all, I want to know why the man always comes first. Without fail. 9.9 times out of 10. Hunting for families has become a source of intersection merriment for me; I’m searching for that elusive matriarch that dared put herself before The Man!
I’d also like to know why people think it’s a good idea to include names?! Pardon my hysteria, but is it really necessary to plaster your family roster on the back of your car? What good could possibly come out of aquatinting tailgaters with the passengers aboard your family vessel? It’s one thing to tote political affiliations or cultural references on your bumper, but with personalized line ups like these, you might as well just write in giant hologram letters: “this is our clan, plan your hit list accordingly.”
Two words: Pussy Power.
I had to close on a good note. If I ever encountered somebody that identified their kin as zombies in varying stages of decomposition, I would actually award them the highest of fives. But only if the woman came first.
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