During my 15 years of car ownership I never once felt compelled to put a bumper sticker on my car. It's not that I'm above the concept of affixing pithy stickers to my vehicle, it's just that I don't have much faith that what strikes me as amusing right now, will still strike me as amusing years from now. Maybe a "My Nose is Blogging this!" bumper sticker will tickle my funnybone today, but next year I'll probably look at it and realize that I am a dork.
This is the same logic that prohibits me from getting a tattoo. I like the concept of using your body for art, but I'll bet that the 80 year-old Mike won't appreciate the humor of looking at his penis and seeing "http://www.suckme.com" on it. The 36-year old Mike thinks that's a freakin' riot though.
Note that this fear of evolving tastes is an odd attribute in a man who hasn't changed his hairstyle since he learned to grasp a comb.
But if you absolutely made me put a bumper sticker on my car, if you put a gun to my head, or threatened to make me use dial-up again, I think I'd choose the bumper sticker that I occasionally seen on an old 1970's era Chevy pickup truck here in my neighborhood. On a plain white background, in green letters, it clearly informs:
That's it. That's my favorite one. I'd be so damn amused to drive around in my faux-yuppie sedan, filled with sippy cups and child seats, sporting a bumper sticker that so plainly declared my requirements for picking up hitchhikers.
I believe that would complete the rich tapestry of inappropriateness that I have been weaving with the days of my life.