Homo-idiotius

Today on my expeditions around Sydney I encountered a disproportionate number of stupid numberplates on cars on front of me. Usually these cars, with their driver’s elbow hanging out the window and wearing a black chesty bonds singlet (pardon me mate, it’s winter!), were ones which made a disproportionate amount of noise with respect to the lawn mower engine under the bonnet. Don’t deny it, we all know the types of cars we are talking about!

So I am happily travelling down Parramatta Road toward home, resisting the urge to detour via the Pho place (see earlier post about Pho – its all good now. No signs of insects in about 2 months!), when this little car scoots in front of me, swerving like he is test driving for The Fast and The Furious. Don’t delude yourself buddy, you look like a loser and your loud car is attracting attention to that fact. So not long after he swerves in front of me I catch a glimpse of his number plate. URUGLY. No mate, you’re ugly. What’s that about? Is the number plate a message for me? Am I the ugly one? Or is it supposed to be ironic, where the phrase is said back to him? Can someone who clearly demonstrates how the evolution theory works be that smart? It begs the question.

So the next numberplate I saw on my travels not three minutes later (What, do they travel in packs? Safety in numbers?) was GR8BAB. Is that supposed to be ‘Great Babe’? Or a tribute to Barbara Streisand (the original Bab’s – it’s far-fetched I know – especially as it was attached to a hotted up ride-on mower) or something to do with a kebab (as Daniel has suggested??). Whatever it may be, I guess I should now confess that I also have a personalised numberplate, but not the one I wanted. JINXME wasn’t available. He he he...