J
Jamie
[A Diatribe]
Men, hear this. I am not a sexist, but I am a man and by the grace of
testosterone and gear oil, I believe I finally understand.
Volvo -- a Latin term whose meaning is "I Roll"; founded on the name of
a ball-bearing company turned auto legend. Volvo - it's icon the symbol
of Mars, God of war.
Volvo -- a car whose origin spawned into legend after creating a
strong, simple, safe machine whose reputation for protecting it's
passengers evolved into legend. Until one day...
Volvo was the car every man loved to turn a wrench on. We wouldn't be
caught holding hands with one, but women around the world held them
with pride and honor -- like their "man."
Volvo was a what we didn't brag about driving, but we rested soundly
each night our wife, mother or loved one drove home in one. To soccer
practice, to the movies or dinner -- we'd think, "they're boxy, but
they're safe." When caught driving our Volvo - we'd say, "it's mom's
or the wife's car." We hid our machismo, but we were confident we were
safe.
Then one fateful day our God of war was purchased by Ford. Everything
changed. Ford needed sales. Volvo needed sales. Ford needed the
purchasing power of men to boost the bottom line like a man needs the
boost of a turbo to bring him to redline.
Friends, I don't know if what happened next was Volvo becoming a
Metrosexual or a homosexual -- but somewhere along the assembly line
manhood was lost!
Volvos became more like our female counterparts -- complicated, tricky,
incomprehensible. Suddenly raw power and strength became complex
anatomy. The body parts seemed to have a mind of their own.
There were hot flashes, breakdowns, highway menopauses. What once was a
sturdy corpse suddenly became an intricate, delicate, psychological
nightmare.
Men drove their machines to the mechanic doctors. "What's wrong with my
car," we asked. The response, "your car?" Why there's nothing wrong
with your car -- it must be you!"
That's when we knew we'd lost our Volvo.
Our machines became "pretty" and "ergonomical". Studly physique was
exchanged for smoother curves and softer body lines.
Well, men of the world hear me well. Volvo, the ball-bearing ancestor
of us men has lost its balls.
I say, give us back our manly machine that we once understood. Forget
the glitz and glamour, forget the polish and perfume. I want my
machine!
Ford/Volvo -- we may not have bragged about owning or driving you, but
you know when your ball bearings itched we men scratched them! When
your lug nuts were loose we tightened them. When you broke down, you
didn't cry. You were a non-interference engine who simply stopped until
we put another belt around your waist and we drove on!
So, either change the name from Volvo to Avon, or give us back what we
once were proud of.
Jamie
Men, hear this. I am not a sexist, but I am a man and by the grace of
testosterone and gear oil, I believe I finally understand.
Volvo -- a Latin term whose meaning is "I Roll"; founded on the name of
a ball-bearing company turned auto legend. Volvo - it's icon the symbol
of Mars, God of war.
Volvo -- a car whose origin spawned into legend after creating a
strong, simple, safe machine whose reputation for protecting it's
passengers evolved into legend. Until one day...
Volvo was the car every man loved to turn a wrench on. We wouldn't be
caught holding hands with one, but women around the world held them
with pride and honor -- like their "man."
Volvo was a what we didn't brag about driving, but we rested soundly
each night our wife, mother or loved one drove home in one. To soccer
practice, to the movies or dinner -- we'd think, "they're boxy, but
they're safe." When caught driving our Volvo - we'd say, "it's mom's
or the wife's car." We hid our machismo, but we were confident we were
safe.
Then one fateful day our God of war was purchased by Ford. Everything
changed. Ford needed sales. Volvo needed sales. Ford needed the
purchasing power of men to boost the bottom line like a man needs the
boost of a turbo to bring him to redline.
Friends, I don't know if what happened next was Volvo becoming a
Metrosexual or a homosexual -- but somewhere along the assembly line
manhood was lost!
Volvos became more like our female counterparts -- complicated, tricky,
incomprehensible. Suddenly raw power and strength became complex
anatomy. The body parts seemed to have a mind of their own.
There were hot flashes, breakdowns, highway menopauses. What once was a
sturdy corpse suddenly became an intricate, delicate, psychological
nightmare.
Men drove their machines to the mechanic doctors. "What's wrong with my
car," we asked. The response, "your car?" Why there's nothing wrong
with your car -- it must be you!"
That's when we knew we'd lost our Volvo.
Our machines became "pretty" and "ergonomical". Studly physique was
exchanged for smoother curves and softer body lines.
Well, men of the world hear me well. Volvo, the ball-bearing ancestor
of us men has lost its balls.
I say, give us back our manly machine that we once understood. Forget
the glitz and glamour, forget the polish and perfume. I want my
machine!
Ford/Volvo -- we may not have bragged about owning or driving you, but
you know when your ball bearings itched we men scratched them! When
your lug nuts were loose we tightened them. When you broke down, you
didn't cry. You were a non-interference engine who simply stopped until
we put another belt around your waist and we drove on!
So, either change the name from Volvo to Avon, or give us back what we
once were proud of.
Jamie
.