Do Not Buy Dodge

I own (vicariously through my wife, Patti) a Dodge Caravan SE. The "SE" stands for "Sports Edition" which supposedly means a transmission cooler, a trailer hitch and beefed up springs and suspension, but what it really means is "just a trailer hitch." It's got a 3-speed, 3 litre, 6-cylinder engine with "random engine noise" technology - you just never know what the next sound will be coming from under the hood. Could be a whistle. Could be a fart. My children love it. Me? Not so much.

Now, as someone who rarely resorts to hyperbole and who eschews exaggeration in favour of calm and reasoned analysis, I can report that my Dodge Caravan is the biggest piece of shit to ever struggle across North American highways and byways. Everything on this van is either broken or has been broken (and repaired by me.) Literally. Stuff has broken that has had me shaking my head in wonder. Once, the horn broke. It didn't short out. It didn't rust on it's mount and lose its ground. It audibly snapped. I know this because I was standing in front of the van when it happened. There was nobody in the van. I think the horn just realized it was part of a Chrysler and committed suicide. And actually, the phenomenon of "parts suicide" explains many of Chrylser's historic and as-of-yet-undiagnosed ailments.

I have a fantasy. In it, it is a sunny and warm, beautiful summer day and Cindy Crawford and I are lying naked in the lush field of perfectly mowed grass that is the front lawn of Chrysler Canada's Mississauga Head Office. From a distance, Patti and the Chrysler Canada staff are watching with envy as me and Cindy writhe around on the grass. After an (embarrassingly) short time, Cindy and I get up; I start my Caravan and put it in gear and Cindy places a heavy toolbox on the accelerator. I jump out of the van and we watch, rapt, as the Chrysler does it's smoke-belching and pathetic version of hurtling towards the fronts doors of the Head Office. Just before impact though, my dream turns into a nightmare. Huge hinged steel walls swing up from the ground as the van approaches, protecting the front doors from the oncoming van. Only then do I see the wreckage of hundreds of other vans - evidently I'm not the first person to have had this dream. Cindy walks away from me disgustedly. My nakedness is now a silent obscenity. Patti's vituperative curses wash over me - again.

(written: 04/09/09)