PT4WLLY – Shine that with your Johnson?

It’s redneck week here at BNZ4BOZO (I know, pretty classy of me, right?).

WLLY, you and your touring edition, Coca-Cola Cruiser are almost too cherry-red for words. Almost. I’ll give it a shot.

WLLY, where in all of San Bernardino did you find that stylin, studly fake spare housing? And, complete with Chrysler logo? Yes, that may become a collectors item, a reference to a time of lameness.

WLLY, did the add-ons for the car cost more than the car itself?

WLLY, do you smile and chuckle every time you see your ride?


And, WLLY, is that compact?

And, WLLY, is that compact?

PT CHAPI – Making this hard for me?

OK, CHAPI, I do love a challenge. I went ahead and Googled CHAPI to find out what I could about you – maybe a language, or a country of origin, or a reference to an under-the-radar Laotian video game. The best I could do was a Spanish composer. He’s dead. CHAPI, you aren’t dead, are you? That would be a good trick.

So then I Googled for ‘redneck‘ and I think I see your PT cruiser out there in the distance, among your brethren.

Word to the wise, CHAPI, if you have a PT, keep it on the lowdown.


Yes, I can be mean

Yes, I can be mean

6BMW100 – Caught in the Fray

Life is good.

You get your MBA from Pepperdine and land a job at Union Bank. Time for the lease on the 3 series Beemer.

Couple years later, you find a better position at Wells Fargo Private Equity. Time to turn in the Beemer early and pick up an Audi TT, natch.

You’re good at networking. You work the Blackberry, tip big in bars, and schmooze like mad. Women are great, but business contacts are better. It’s a man’s world.

Finally, the email comes from the hedge fund guy you knew from your frat. He wants to have lunch. You seal the deal.

For your first day at work, you’re sporting the new Versace suit, and you got a new Beemer. A serious one. A 5 series sedan to show that you aren’t a cowboy. And it sparkles.

Fast-forward to being made partner. It’s time. Shed all inhibitions. Get the car you really want. The one that’s finally about the ladies. The one that says you’re money, and you’re not family. The drunk/slut-mobile.

And you get it.


For the Love of God!

For the Love of God!

And then, six weeks later. You get the plates. Ouch!

Now those ditsy blondes that you want to pick up actually think you’re a lesser man, driving a Beemer again. After all this time! So maybe it’s time to have your assistant call the DMV to report that  your plates were stolen . . .