Walking Billboards

What is it these days about people and labels? People are mostly smart (at least I like to think so), so here is something I do not get. Why is it that people—and it seems most people do—confine themselves so readily to being labeled by some company who is making money off their own willingness to paint themselves into Dale Earnhardt, Jr. or some other icon? I love walking down the street and being sold to by Nike, Old Navy, or Bud Light or whatever company has successfully extracted a few bucks from some mindless nabob. I can’t help but wonder if the thought had even crossed the mind of the unsuspecting victim that he or she’d been had. I mean, shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t a person be paid to be a walking billboard? You don’t ever see any roadside billboards standing in line at the local rescue mission or the teeny-bopper mall to purchase the garnishment that would cover their own nakedness, do you? Of course not! And you’ll never see me stoop to that level, either.

In fact, when I was pimply-faced and insecure—wait, I still am. I mean when I was in school, I was never reduced to self-labeling or calling myself a variety of names--I had friends to do that for me.

So I just don’t get it.

And then there are those people who drive around with a cute little oval on their bumper which says OBX? What on earth is an OBX?! And why is it these people want me to know that they like OBX? I actually have my very own secret theory that these people are the degenerative progeny of the earliest cavemen and that they are still utilizing their ancestral language that only they know in order to make them feel sophisticated.

But now it’s even worse. We’ve got all these other idiotic indecipherable white ovals plastered to every piece of available space imaginable. I guess these sophisticates are now becoming even more sophisticated. In fact, just yesterday I saw stationary OBX hubcaps. That’s right, you heard me! While the car is moving these things stay upright. They must be weighted somehow so that the letters don’t turn while the car is moving. Wow! Now, if it’s really true what these modern cave dwellers say—I overheard once that OBX is Cavespeak for the Outer Banks—I’m grabbing my wife and kids immediately and am going to spend my two week vacation along the Carolina coast just to find out what the hubbub is all about. Perhaps while I’m down there I’ll find my answer while walking along the beach with a kid at each hand as the sun sets over the beautiful water.

But if not, the next time I see any vehicle with that annoying white oval and those same black letters, I’m going to jump from my car, rip that thing off, and save someone else from the deception—and from spending a few of their precious hard-earned dollars on a wasted trip when instead they could use their money on something worthwhile—like a baseball cap with a big fat checkmark on it!