I'm glad Edmund brought up dream cars as I was talking about this subject yesterday at work. I think Edmund deserves extra points for having a realistic dream car. On the other hand, I have far too lofty goals to ever even consider achieving them.
I actually have two dream cars. There's the conventional "when I'm normal people rich" car and the "when I'm bathing in Benjamins after years of committing unthinking acts that I could never possibly forgive myself for rich" car. Either way, both are flawed concepts that I'm probably better off never seeing through.
The "normal" car is some sort of black Mercedes. This will be great when I'm a sleazy executive in LA and I want to solidify my lack of originality by driving the same car as everybody else in my neighborhood. This car also comes as part of a package deal with an SUV to drive my 2.5 kids to school. If I get really lucky I can have the SUV in that nauseating silver-gold hybrid color they make now. It's colors like that that make me wonder just how bad something has to be not to make it past the development phase. Speaking of hybrids, my first born totally gets a Prius for his/her 16th birthday, right? Remember when I forecast my whole life in a single paragraph? Oh, yeah. That just happened.
The "unutterable atrocities" car is a red Lamborghini Diablo. Not only will I have do terrible things to reach such a prominent tax bracket, but I'll totally be that douche who drives a gaudy sports car in the city. I'd be so vain at this point that I'd gladly bring the Diablo out to go get groceries even though I totally have that old Benz in the garage. And every time my door slowly opens upward as opposed to outward I'll secretly want to punch myself in the face while I maintain my facade of undeserved accomplishment. This dream car thing is a lose-lose situation for James McDonagh.
Why am I even thinking about these things? I drive my mother's 2000 Dodge Caravan. It comes with so many wonderful features including: no air conditioning, a trunk that never opens, wobbly back seats and the unmistakable smell of approximately 100,000 cigarettes. I would be eternally grateful if a man with two lazy eyes in a blood stained trench coat came up to me and said "Here, take the keys to my 1998 Dodge Stratus! It's all yours!" I guess I'll settle for an Audi.
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