LITTLE RED CORVETTE: It’s Saturday Night but That Don’t Make It All Right

            I saw a Corvette yesterday and damn that thing looks and even sounds sexy. Before I could get a good look, the vehicle sped away like a big-boned kid chasing an ice cream truck. I took a disapproving look around my 21-year-old SAAB and imagined how different things would be if I owned a Corvette. My mind drifted off to a world where, despite my waistline and limited social skills, every man would want to be me, and every woman would want to be with me.

            My new life would begin at the dealership. The salesman would try to upsell me on all the options, but I’d be rude and combative, because that’s what everyone expects from a Corvette Bro. My most crucial decision would be choosing the color: My Ex-Wife Is Such a Bitch Black, Check Out My $12,000 Hair Plug Job Blue, I’m Seriously Overcompensating Red or Which Way to the Nearest Topgolf Silver.  Once settled on my color, the next critical item would be the sound system. I’d choose the 12 speaker Ace of Bass system, which carries a lifetime guarantee to piss off your neighbors. After a fruitless day trying to learn how to operate the high-tech system, I’d have it stuck blaring the Miami Vice theme song on a constant loop. And I’d be okay with that.

            From the dealership, my next stop would be the Banana Republic for my new age-inappropriate wardrobe. I’d need all the help I can get as I chase young women stupid enough to hang out with an old fart like me. Then it would be a quick drive to the nearest high-end cigar shop. While posing with a cigar and bragging about my expensive toys, like-minded bros would be drawn to me like flies to cow droppings. So would begin the forming of my Vette posse. My entourage would expand further as I spend every idle moment on the Vette forum.

            My seasoned Vette Bros would teach me their mythical Bro language and ways. I’d feel like a member of an elite squad using jargon like “brodacious” and “brocassion” while hanging with guys nicknamed Brobi Won Kenobi and Bilbro Baggins. Me and my new buddies would play golf at all the expensive clubs. Our gear and snug clothing would be emblazoned with Corvette logos. We’d want people to ask if we own Corvettes, but when they did, we’d answer with a snotty, dismissive “yeah,” and ignore them.

            When we’re done with our round of golf, we’d hang out at the clubhouse. We’d obnoxiously “broast” anyone who didn’t play well and even more offensively gloat about our Corvettes and what a piece of crap the Mustang is. We’d drink the most expensive whiskeys and latest microbrews even though none of us like them and they give us intestinal distress. When we weren’t bragging about our Vettes or dissing the competitors, one guy in our posse would brag in excruciating detail about the year his high school baseball team went to the state finals.

            Every year our posse would go to the midnight airing of the newest Fast and Furious movie. We’d be giddy for the event and yell things like, “Insane!”, “Intense!” and “Bobby’s Stingray could definitely do that!” The rest of the audience, which would be 30-40 years our junior, would roll their eyes and vow never to buy a Vette.

Me and my bros would be up to our eyeballs in debt because of our second or third wives’ shopping habits and our expensive toys. We’d spend half the time in our immaculately detailed vehicles yelling at our lawyers to get us a new settlement with our exes so we can pay the bills.

Finding a perfect parking spot would become an obsession. None of my Vette buddies would share from where they scammed their handicap parking tags, so I’d have to park sideways in two spots half a mile from the outlet shops. I wouldn’t get rained on during my trek to the stores because everyone knows you NEVER drive your Vette in bad weather. 

Lost in my Corvette dream, I dropped my focus and drifted out of my lane. A loud beep and screech from my wife jarred me back to reality.

“What the hell were you thinking!” Kate roared from the passenger seat.

“Ah nothing, sorry,” I replied

Minutes later I shoehorn my vehicle into a snug spot only 100 yards from the store and think to myself, “Maybe a Vette is a bit much. I guess I’ll just keep my beater SAAB, my AmazonBasics clothes, my first wife and my original hair follicles. Life seems a lot easier that way”