The minivan is the automotive equivalent of those ugly-ass Crocs™: both are purchased by those who prioritize convenience and comfort over everything else, including personal dignity, self-respect, and consideration of others.  Both are purchased by people who are In No Hurry.  Which puts those of us who are in a hurry in dark states of piss-off, because if it wasn’t for you, we’d likely already be wherever it is we’re trying to go.

There is simply no excuse for minivans, yet they seem to be everywhere, particularly in front of me in the fast lane.  I simply cannot take it anymore, so I’m going to hold forth on the subject. Will it be offensive?  Likely, but only if you own one of these hunks of shit.  Offensive or not, hear me out.  I call this Contemptus Minivani.  ::clears throat::

Behold the minivan, a vehicular abomination so flagrantly designed to broadcast one message to the world at large – that its owner has abdicated all pretense of living a life of intrigue, adventure, or aesthetic discernment.  The minivan, in its lumpy, hand-held-vacuum-like, humpbacked obscenity, is the mechanized version of sweatpants worn out to a restaurant, a limp white flag raised high in the culture war against mediocrity.  These things, these bloated tin cans on wheels, traverse our streets as lumbering, impassable testaments to the most grievous sin of all time and space: not caring.  And worse still, turning that lack of care into a personality trait.

This motorized beige, this four-wheeled apology, reeks of surrender.  Surrender to practicality.  Surrender to “Oh, but little Harper has soccer at 3.”  Surrender to the numbing siren song of suburban America’s quiet desperation.  If cars were people, the minivan would be the shambling uncle who corners you at family dinners to explain the superior fuel efficiency of CVT transmissions while you frantically scan the room for an escape hatch.  And yes, I mean that literally and figuratively, because minivan drivers somehow manage to clog roads all while moving at speeds that would embarrass a glacier.

And what’s with their owners?  These people, let’s call them what they are, vehicular sadists, are out here in the wild parking lots of life pulling twelve-point turns like they’re conducting a symphony of awkwardness. What is this fetish for obstructing an entire grocery store exit with a reverse maneuver that takes so long, whole civilizations could rise and fall before their backup camera finally aligns with the perfect spot?  Is parking a minivan some sort of perverse art form?  No.  It’s vehicular Sudoku for people with a startling lack of spatial awareness and too much faith in their “blind spot detection system.”

“But oh,” you say, “Isn’t it wonderful for families?  You can fit half a T-ball team and a Costco run in the back!  Sliding doors are so convenient!”  Sure.  And it’s also very convenient to quit your job, move to Idaho, and live off canned beans, but you don’t see throngs of respectable adults lining up for that lifestyle.  There’s a line, dear reader!  At some point the unchecked excess of convenience morphs into a soul-siphoning lack of standards.  Minivans aren’t cars; they’re moving mausoleums for ambition.  You don’t drive a minivan; a minivan drives you…off the cliff of everything you once held dear.

Perhaps I can help you with a bit of perspective taking: picture this grim monstrosity from the outside.  That grotesque silhouette, a rolling  box of despair with headlights.  Minivans have contouring like they were sketched by drunk engineers with a special fetish for rectangles.  Their color palettes?  “Boring gray,” “depressing silver,” and “crime scene beige.”  Aerodynamics?  About as streamlined as a refrigerator taped to a cinder block.  And yet these behemoths seem to overtake the roads come school drop-off hours and Saturday errands, gumming up traffic like arterial plaque in the freeways of human progress.  They are rolling handbrakes on society.

Don’t get me started on the fucking interiors.  Have you seen the upholstery?  Jesus, it’s like someone spilled oatmeal on a beige carpet and then said, “Yes, this is ready for production.”  Hundreds of sticky cup holders, discarded Happy Meal toys lurking under the seats like plastic vermin.  The vague, sour musk of stale fries and crushed dreams, forever embedded in the floor mats.  People who drive these things live in oxymoronic captivity; their lives are bigger and emptier at the same time.  Expansive seating, sure, but for what?  It’s all hollow.  Their kids don’t even appreciate it.  No one in that vehicle is happy.

And look, I get it.  Not everyone’s destined to drive an Aston Martin or even something as aspirationally thrifty as a Honda Civic.  But there’s a line!  You can live a practical life without driving what is essentially an unlicensed school bus for emotionally defeated grown-ups.  The minivan, with all of its sliding doors and rear-seat “entertainment systems.” is the last refuge of the resigned.  It is automotive Stockholm Syndrome.

Do me a favor.  If you’re reading this while sitting behind the wheel of your rolling midlife crisis on autopilot in the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, just ask yourself one question.  Be honest about it: how did it come to this?  And while you’re pondering that, pull over.  Maybe sell the bastard.  Go test drive something with a semblance of personality, even if it’s just a clunky old station wagon.  Anything but this beige purgatory on wheels.  We deserve better.  You deserve better.  And for the love of all that’s decent, we’d all get to where we’re going faster if you just stopped hogging the goddamn left lane.

N.P.: “Crying’s Just a Thing You Do” – JD McPherson