As any good lingerie salesperson will tell you, it’s always a good idea to cover up the majority of your junk in front of others. Just show a peek & you’ll look more appealing. However, here in LA, that’s really not our speed. Within the first five minutes of meeting someone new in this town, you’ll learn about which step they’re on (out of the 12), which marriage they’re on, and precisely where they are on their “journey.” Now I’m not saying that’s right or wrong, but upon occasion, it’s just a little much.
Like when that message gets plastered on the back of their vehicle. For example:
Really Label Whore? You’re driving an entry level two-seater Mercedes through Beverly Hills, I’m pretty sure that you’re plate is simply stating the obvious. I’m guessing her other car reads: FAKETITS
Sometimes the confession is so tragic, you can’t even deem them douchebags:
You saw Bon Jovi in 86? OMG. Is that really the most eventful thing that’s happened in the last 28 years? Someone help that woman. Even the dolphins are jumping away. I almost wanna call her a douchebag so her next plate can be DOUCHE14.
Then there’s this winner:
That may do in Virginia, but that ain’t gonna fly in LA, honey. So unless you’re willing to don the Douchebag crown, I suggest you break out of that Caravan before it’s too late. Even a Prius would be more eventful.
Sometimes the vanity plate is a cry for help:
Agreed. Never too late to love. Fantastic. In fact, I’ll give $100 to the first cop that pulls over that Mitsubishi & sticks his tongue down her throat. Again, it’s too sad to by douchy. You know what’s not?
Romantic? Sure. Pathetic? You betcha. If you really have to plaster “Love My Wife” on your license plate, you’ve done something terribly douchey & you’re an undeniable d-bag. I’m sorry. I’m sure she’s lovely. But I doubt she’s buying it. If my husband did that, my plate would read DBAGHBBY.