Late in the sixth season of Seinfeld, one of the greatest television shows of all-time, Kramer receives, by mistake, a vanity license plate that reads ASSMAN. He goes to the DMV to straighten things out, but the clerk, consulting her computer, says there’s no mistake. (“You are the Assman!”)
The plate actually belongs to proctologist Dr. Cooperman, whom they encounter later in the episode in that tie-it-all-together Seinfeld way. Along the way, Kramer dates large-bottomed women and parks in the doctors-only lot at the hospital. (“Cosmo Kramer. Proctology.”)
So, what a great front plate for my pickup!
A couple of people have gotten the joke. That’s cool. I was an instant hero with my younger son, who suddenly wanted me to take him to school on my way to work. And I chuckled every time I got in.
Alas, as of this morning, the ASSMAN plate has come off. Why would I do such a thing? Am I yella?
Well, yeah. A little. A gate guard gave me a funny look last week. He didn’t say anything to me, but that feels like a time bomb. Also, I haven’t done a slow, opposite-direction approach with a police officer on a side street yet—you know, the sort of encounter that would give him/her plenty of time to read the plate? Portal Lane, anyone? I doubt the plate is illegal, but that doesn’t immunize me from having to prove it inconveniently.
Finally, though there are surely many people running around who get the joke, it’s probably safe to say there are more who don’t. And to those folks, I’m just some schmuck driving around with a not-nice word on the front of his vehicle. Church? Passing kids playing in the neighborhood? You getting me?
The ASSMAN plate will live on and give me chuckles. Still considering whether it goes in the garage or in the study.
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