Sometimes I get the feeling that Pimp My Ride has gotten a hold of the inside of my colectivo. There’s just something about that crunked-out visor fringe and mother of pearl steering wheel that gets my blood going in the morning. Who doesn’t have to suppress a giggle when they see the loud and proud ad on the back of a bus for “ButtMan,” Argentina’s premier and largest sex shop? It’s not so much the name of the shop or the design of the ad, which rips off the Batman font. But rather, it’s the picture of the porn star in a white thong facing me as I finish my morning coffee, her voluptuous ass rising up behind her like the two tallest peaks of the Andes. If this ad were in the US, a dozen pro-family groups would be protesting the company and the “No Spin Zone” would have a series special on how sexual ads are affecting our country’s children. But, I digress.
This morning, I glanced above the driver’s head. In addition to the usual fringe, I saw a series of what appeared to be white shadowbox Playboy playmates in white, set against the bright quilted blue background of the decorative window dressing. The cutouts sat with a hand on the ground behind them, 18” waists, long hair blowing in the breeze with large perky boobs and round butts. I held in a grin while I stood in line to pay my fare, and realized with chagrin that the driver was not wearing a diamond encrusted “AMOR,” nor sitting on a leopard print seat cover.
I started wondering what it would be like if Pimp My Ride did get a hold of this bus and set it rolling down Santa Fe. Hydraulics aside, there’s a mother load you could do with the inside of a colectivo. Xhibit would appear, grill in place, yell “como anda, gente?!” laugh at the current state of the bus, take the conductor out for a fernet and coke, and get to work.
The basics would include HD-DVD screens that receive live feed of Susanna and the current futbol game, massage recliners that come with a hot empanada and boiled water for your mate. There would probably be massive dice or a disco ball hanging from the ceiling and instead of a buzz, the button for the stops would play a snippet of the latest hot Daddy Yankee jam.
But why stop there? Feeling frisky? Who needs a handicap section? Close off that biznatch and make it a moving telo (hourly motel). Forget about telling the driver your preferred fare. In fact, unless you VIP, girlfriend you ain’t got a seat on this shiz. Lolas required. It would be completely schmooz chamuyero, and the driver would have a pimp in his limp and a tear in his eye when he saw the result.
If you look at other colectivos, you’ll notice each bus’ little bit of special peeking out from the tops of the windows. Actually, if Junior League were in Argentina I’m sure an entire fundraiser would be based on decorating different buses and they would look like Martha Stewart swallowed Barbies’ dream house and blew up inside of the damn thing. But I prefer my colectivo pimped out. That’s all I think, as I tell the driver “uno veinte cinco.” It just adds that extra bit of ambience to my morning ride. Really.