So, do you need proof that our auto industry is in trouble? Or that America, as a force for what's awesome and cool, is dead? Or that the generation that is twee has claimed victory?
Behold GM's official dance routine performed at the L.A. Auto Show, set to the song "Chevy Volt and Me."
Fetch a bucket.
So there you have it, the official car for fragile flowers — those Narnian fauns conceived at the Lilith Fair who steer with tiny hooves, listening to Dido, desperately clutching a worn copy of Deepak Chopra's latest caftan caper.
Sure, the car is tiny, but there's enough room for the yoga mat, a bag of Craisins and a papier-mâché tree nymph you sculpted at the Learning Annex (it helped you get over the hypnotherapist who dumped you).
I kid. That's not the person driving a Volt, because they can't afford this sanctimonious sardine can.
Yep, this Easy-Bake Oven on wheels cost $40,000. That's a price that, writes Charles Lane in Slate, only folks making more than $200,000 a year would buy. Lane quotes a report, saying buyers "will be concentrated in Southern California," and will be "popularized by high-profile celebrities." Meaning, the only people buying it will be Janeane Garofalo and or someone resembling Janeane Garofalo. God we're soft.
And this is what happens in a nanny government that thinks they know what's good for you. They want you to buy something no one wants, at a price few can afford. They're telling you what you "ought" to drive.
In fact, that should be their tag line. The Volt: What You Ought to Drive.
This is what I drive. It's a Facel Vega. When I got it, it was about the same price as a Volt, but it's got no seatbelts, eats gas and killed Albert Camus. Those were the good old days.
And if you disagree with me, you're a racist homophobe who drives a fur-line Hummer running on pelican blood.