AN ODE TO THE DODGE NEON

In your squatty frame and failed profile, you represent the very worst of the 86-octane American nightmare. You are rolling litter--a turd on four wheels and sometimes those wheels shine like dusty diamonds like there still might be a way of compensating for such a pitied lack of horsepower, style and your driver's 4th grade reading level. We can throw a fin on the back to give you the dimension of power and force, but under the hood is your lowly 4-cylinder crap pile.

With all of the sadness in this cruel, war-ravaged world, your irony and prose offers humor and witting satire for which is more reliable than our Japanese engineering because we can always know there's some prick who will rush to each light with a blurred vision of glory and victory that can only occur behind your wheel when no one else is looking or expecting and you have a rolling 20 MPH headstart that will propell the driver only faster to the next light, but no further in life and in happiness. Downhill, even, I have found your speed to be blistering. I wonder what it is that your driver runs from. I would probably drive at the speed of a sprinting giraffe too if I drove you. And I'd always make sure I had you dressed up in a limo tint.
And what kind of a name is "Neon" anyway? I guess because "Aspire" was already taken, it only made perfect sense to name you the hue of shamelessness and blinding ig'nance. You're the "girl push-up" of the automotive industry--like all short-cuts were unabashedly accepted in the name of affordable and poorly-assembled machinery. And because no one would buy a car called, "Stump," you will be "Neon." Such a bright name for a car with such a dim existence.
Lucky for you, accessories are easy to come by because otherwise, "improvement" would be impossible. And while, certainly, some of your accessories make very little sense, there's celebration for the makers of such products have built homes and put grandchildren through college in the industry of making you look "better" and more like a Civic. If Detroit made a Mr. Potato Head...
Even more of a delight, is the sound of someone who has decided that the purr of your sensual mechanics weren't loud enough, they've tricked you with glass packs so your driver can toot their failure loudly for entire neighborhoods to enjoy while they're taking in an, otherwise, solid night of sleep before going to their steady job with good coffee and free long-distance. Why must so many Neon fanatics find it necessary to accessories with the "tribal art" decaling? Fitting for a model that saw its peak the year it arrived and became less savory ever year since. It was fun while it lasted--taking ten years to still get it wrong. I'm almost left with a little hole in my heart--the actual size of a Dodge Neon, but I know your legacy will live on with vitality and fervor because there's a jerkoff on every block that will defend your beauty and unmatched quality until Detroit finds another way to pinch off another substandard midget bowel movement in the shape of a Neon.

I've included one of my favorite videos so you can join in the reflection with me as one of your truest of fans helps celebrate your model by just really saying, "Just look at it! It's a Neon!" You would swear you were the Millennium Falcon by some of the angles and close-ups.