Who has a van, but no kids
I get the concept of the van. I am fine with the idea of a van. I’m not talking mini-van, pick up the kids from practice kind of thing. I mean a big ass panel van or one of the old chevy vans from the seventies. For those to whom I speak, this is not a work van. This van is not a spare vehicle for when someone needs to move a couch or dispose of a body at midnight. This is not a van for any purpose than as your primary vehicle, and it is nothing but creepy my friend.
So, you have a van? Alright, but is it fuckin’ sweet? Really? Yep, it has a custom gold flake paint job with a wicked lookin’ wizard casting a spell on the half-naked maiden emblazoned on the side. That’s a totally awesome pin-striping job along with the full-carpeted interior, beanbags, hot plate, fridge, and those sweet-ass rims. This thing rules your face! Indeed. Then again, maybe you are the van owner that went the other way. Some rickety looking rust bucket that has seen more bad days than good. A van that looks like it’s baby van-children would be named “tetanus” and “herpes simplex 2.” Seriously, your shit-brown van with your cracked window, bent antennae, and faded Grateful Dead bears sticker in the rear window, looks like it should be selling ruffie-cones to the ringtone version of “the song that never ends.” This van of yours should be in a mugshot book, I wouldn’t put it past this van to actually sodomize a Prius against it’s will. Sorry, some vans are just born bad.
Both vans seem to come with sleeveless band t-shirts, aviator shades, and a member’s only jacket. You might be the cool guy with a bandana hanging out of his pocket or a wicked jean jacket, like “The Boss!” You definitely have a moustache, that’s for sure. Vans of any kind just remind me of moving rooms on wheels; like a gypsy rapist’s wet dream. Just rolling in to town and then rolling off with someone’s cousin like some deranged pied piper. This country seems to love it’s neighborhood watch programs. Give any grandma or retired man enough free time and he’ll sign up for neighborhood watch patrol walking his Lhasa Apso, Trixie. Then there is the cul-de-sac neighborhood where everyone is watching out for the other guy’s kid…and at the top of every one of their list of things to look out for are men in capes with burlap sacks, and VANS. The latter is actually underlined twice…in red pen.
Either van creeps me out intensely because either van feels like it should only be owned if the owner has kids. The rickety basement on wheels, good for keeping women tied to a mock radiator, should be filled with like four rows of kids and some soccer balls on the way to the district finals or some shit. The epic van in pristine shape, might be the van dad bought in high school before he got “all lame and shit” and had kids. That super cool van might be a mildly functional version of it’s former glory. It is certainly not the primary form of transporting the demon hybrid children to and from their short-lived and otherwise expensive and emotionally draining endeavors.
All I’m saying is that if you own a van, you’d better be an electrician or a father, because anything else and you belong on a list, Mr. Creeper VonRapeyville.