I recently had the supreme pleasure of seeing this vehicle in the flesh. I dribbled. I drooled. I had visions of myself, all Frye-booted and Mad Max serious, screaming around town in it, burning dinosaur bones to the tune of 2.5 mpg and AC/DC's "Back in Black," leaving Mustangs and Miatas and those goofy jacked up neon green Hondas impotent in my wake. I did some quick, basic math. Without pen and paper, even, calculating how many shoes I'd have to forgo over the next fifty years in order to afford it. Estimating how long a girl can survive on Costco hot dogs, Wonder Bread, and Keds.
I know. This car is so totally inappropriate in this Brave New World of stump-shaped, corn oil fueled transport. It's like an AK-47 when all you need is a pocket knife. It's a floor length black silk Balenciaga with a slit up to there when the invite says office casual. But let's face it folks, the Smart Car just doesn't have the same elan. The Smart Car is Beta Male. The Dodge Challenger? Alpha all the way, baybeeeeeee.
You know what other car tingles my tummy? The Chevy Camaro. Perfection, regardless of the year – 1969, 1979, 2009. I don't care. They all have muscle.
Now you tell Moi, so I don't feel like such a Republican: what car would you thumb your nose at the environment for?