So there I am driving on the 134, minding my own business, when I spot one of those customized license plates -- you know, the ones where people use cutesy spellings interspersed with numbers to express how much they love their dog (Gr8Dane) or the extent to which they rock at suing the pants off people (out2sooU). You may rightly assume that I do not like these plates. They compel gullible drivers like me into tailgating close enough to read them, regardless of whether we are all pushing 85 in the hail. And then after all that effort, they usually suck anyway.
So today's plate was no different except that it shed such light on the extremely delusional state of the driver that it was worth noting. And worth calling my friend V-Train to register my disgust on her voice mail. The plate said "PRDoll." First of all, I know plenty of people in PR and none of them -- to their credit -- could be accurately classified as 'dolls.' These are people who have to do things like try to get the "Access Hollywood" crew to show up at Leif Garret's book signing. Persistent and aggressive? Probably. Tired and grouchy. Likely. But akin to a doll? Doubtful.
Of course I could not just let this go. No, I had to speed up enough to get a decent look at the woman behind the wheel, whom I expected to be bubble-headed, petite and chatting on her Blackberry. Wrong. This woman was obese and drinking coffee. Maybe she borrowed the car, I don't know. But fat or thin, cute or plain, NOBODY should run around town, publicly proclaiming one's self to be a doll. I don't care if you look like Jessica Alba and have just baked a turkey lasagna for your sick friend. You should not declare yourself a doll unless you are prepared to get "bR8ted."