Vans

Vans, first designed to carry nine kids at any given time to soccer games and nine transients at any given time to Berkeley, are quite possibly the most annoying form of transpo known to man. I’ve always said that I will never, ever get a van. You can print this post and staple it to my head (“I would never put staples on this little fella!”) if I ever even consider getting a van. There’s something about vans (and clowns, another DOTD) that’s always bothered me — they ride too low, and they behave too much like cars, but they’re too big to BE cars, so they’re sneaky big fishes in small ponds, hogging parking real estate and general visual pleasantness. Crappy huge sleeper vans with LADDERS (????) are more bothersome than crappy huge sedans or crappy huge SUV’s (Full disclosure: I drive a Jeep, but it fits in regular car spaces and I recycle cans in Michigan and turn the lights out when I go on vacation). I don’t think anybody trusts a plain red van without windows and a padlock on the back door. People who drive vans probably love clowns, and clowns probably love vans with the huge ladders (????) and bubble windows and flat tires, fighting a slow, abandoned death as winter thaws the corner of Foster and Damen.

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