Automobile Magazine columnist Ezra Dyer has a car a ten-year-old BMW M3 and a spouse who deems said Bimmer unsatisfactory family transportation. What to do?
Most women secretly want to drive a monster truck, and Heather is no different. My job, then, is to consider what she wants (Grave Digger with a vanity mirror) and what I want (at the moment, the General Lee as interpreted by Chip Foose) and meet in the middle. That means a crossover.
There’s only one problem. From a car guy perspective, “crossover” is the new code for “minivan.” And like a minivan, nobody’s buying a Toyota RAV4 because it causes a primal stirring in the loins. You buy a crossover because it’s useful. It answers your needs. And I find that just so depressing.
A 32-inch TV would meet my needs, which is why I got a 50-inch. A George Foreman electric grill would meet my needs, which is why I got a bitchin’ Weber. A two-blade razor would meet my needs, so naturally I use a Gillette Octo-Blade Follicle-Nuker Turbo. Excess is best, but there’s no such thing as an excessive crossover. Yet.
Do women truly covet monster trucks? I remember an issue of Automobile when the staff somehow managed to get their mitts on some sort of Class 6 hauler, and the office babes were just totally “Oh. My. God.” Or at least so reported the Head Babe, editor-in-chief Jean Jennings, who devoted an entire page to the impact it had on her crew. I can say only that we have some pretty heavy haulers at 42nd and Treadmill, and scant few females volunteering to drive them.
For myself, speaking as a person with a George Foreman grill, a sack of twin-blade razors and two 20-inch TVs, I suggest Mr Dyer hold out for a Mazdaspeed CX-9. You know they have to be contemplating the idea.