My March 2012 entry bragged about the attributes of my most prized possession, the legendary Saturn SL2.  Oh, don’t go breaking a sweat trying to find it in my archives – as usual I’ll do all the work for you, you lazy blanket bastards. Here’s the gist of it….

“I suddenly have this urge to be sporty and if there’s anything I’m not, it’s sporty. The proof is in my driveway. There’s my workhorse 2006 Toyota van and then there’s my every day zip around town and look like a hobo car, the 2002 Saturn SL2.

That’s right, the coveted 2002. That’s the money year, the one everybody wants. It’s hard to imagine Saturn is no longer in business after designing this baby. The only thing that sits lower to the ground than this vehicle is a Munchkin with stomach cramps. Comfortable? No, actually it’s excruciating, thank you. I should have known something was horribly wrong when the suggested options were a chiropractor and Vicodin.

It has a V-8 – the drink – and it came with an automatic transmission and a semi-automatic weapon when you realized what you’d bought. The car doesn’t even go in reverse – it goes into remorse. There’s more. It has a steering me wrong wheel, real bucket seats with handles and the sport package consists of a hacky sack and a Wiffle ball.

The satellite radio brand name should have been a warning. Really, the You Can’t Be Sirius? The donut tire is an actual glazed donut. The navigation system is a surveyor’s transit and a copy of “A Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy”. I wanted a Lojack system, but Saturn only offered the Hungry Jack. This actually worked out – once two guys attempted to carjack me and they truly preferred taking the more valuable biscuits.”

Fast forward four months – my son Ethan turns 15 and casually mentions he’s one year away from getting his driver’s license. It’s no secret he covets the 2002 Saturn SL2, but what good judge of horsepower flesh doesn’t?  Good Lord, I’ve turned down offers as high as $1500 for it.

He’s my son and I love him, but before I’m going to pop for the insane cost of insurance for a 16 year old male driver AND relinquish the sweetest ride to ever go from 0 to 60 in 3.8 weeks  I’m going to get something in return.  Daddy needs a little fun, too.  In this case, mental torture.

I explained that my father didn’t hand me a car when I was 16 (in fairness, he did point out a car he thought I should lease when I was 37), but was prepared to fork over the Saturn ONLY if Ethan selected one of three vanity plates I had already discovered were available from the Arizona DMV.

My first offer to him: IMABABY. The second: MRPOOPY. The third: JERKWAD.

He repeated each one endlessly like some mantra gone wild and then said the words I longed to hear, “Really? Are you kidding me? You’re the worst father in the world!”

I told him he had an hour to make his decision. He raced to the phone and polled his friends and all of his brothers and sisters and returned to me a broken teen.

“It’s Jerkwad,” he said in a voice Eeyore would have found profoundly depressing.

“It was the only logical choice,” I said and informed him I was immediately going on-line to order and pay for the plate.

The story exploded (I certainly told everyone I knew) and for the next nine months prior to getting his driver’s license members of our family, Ethan’s friends and total strangers playfully called him Jerkwad. He would laugh good-naturedly and silently ponder the most effective way of killing me and disposing of the body

As his 16th birthday grew near the impact of his new license plate on the rest of his life was clearly haunting him.

“Dad, it’s bad enough that everyone is going to see my plate and call me Jerkwad, but if they think I’m calling them Jerkwad they’ll beat the crap out of me.”

“Yup, it’s certainly a controversial plate,” I replied.  “Maybe you should have chosen IMABABY.”

Two weeks ago on a Saturday it was finally, inevitably the day of reckoning. He had his license, had been added to my insurance policy and I handed him the keys to automotive Heaven.  Only the unveiling of the license plate stood between him and sliding behind the wheel of the 2002 Saturn SL2, the ultimate driving machine.

I announced I was going to mount the plate on the car and told him to meet me outside in five minutes. Right on cue he appeared – a doomed soul awaiting the kiss of the hangman’s noose. A sheet covered the plate.

It was a special moment between father and child.  “Son, I intoned, “forget the name Ethan. That phase of your life is over  You’re Jerkwad now and forever and with that name comes zero responsibilities, but plenty of penalties. No girl will ever get in this car; you’ll be mocked wherever you go and you’ll more than likely be beaten to a pulp, but is that so wrong? What do you think, son? Are you ready to become Jerkwad?”

“I hate you,” he replied lovingly. “Can we just get this over with?”

I whipped the sheet off to reveal the plate…797-PZX… the same plate that has always been on the car. He stared at it in utter disbelief…his vocal cords frozen.

He looked away and then immediately back…locking his eyes on the plate, processing and reprocessing what it said and then turned his unforgiving gaze to me. “I know what you’re doing. You’re torturing me even more. You’ve got the plate and you just haven’t put it on the car yet.  You’re the worst!”

“You’re wrong. This is your plate. Do you really think I’d make you drive around with a plate that says JERKWAD?””

He fell to his knees and said, “Thank you, God!”

“Personally, I wouldn’t be thanking Him just yet if I was you. I was kidding about JERKWAD, but not kidding about the vanity plate you’re getting next year. No choices this time. I’ve already picked it. Just consider the possibilities of IDNTWIPE.”

But so much for child abuse. Let’s get cracking on our Blanket Of The Month. From the Jon Stuart collection comes this bold and beautiful 1920s Oregon City Woolen Mills blanket that’s out of this world – possibly Saturn.