People Movers : Rectangular Contraceptives


This model’s paint finish comes with its own cup holder

Here at The Sane Companion, we still startle when we see words (or terms) like ‘Kiwi Saver’, ‘lunch-box fillers’, ‘David Seymour’s massive majority’ or the like.

But one of the biggest scares ever, for me, is the horror of The People Mover.

I know I should have bought one long ago.  There are times when I need to shift five small humans around the suburb.  But something keeps stopping me.

Is it the disturbing sound of a sliding door?  The tiny amount of planet-friendly emissions issuing from the exhaust?  The dangly beads swaying from the rear-view mirror?  The roar of the sewing machine-sized engine under the bonnet?  The ultra-shit paint job?

I could go on but I won’t.  Actually I will.

These rectangular contraceptives (you’ll never have to worry about getting pregnant while you have one of these in your garage) are everywhere.  They have strange fold-down seats for extra bus-guests.  Sometimes the bus-guests are forced to face each other.  The manufacturers try to compensate for the embarrassment of the experience by putting cup holders everywhere.  There are cup holders in the centre console.  There are cup holders near the handbrake.  There are cup holders under the bonnet, on top of the car, in the hatch area.  The exhaust system has its own cup-holder assembly.

They are extremely efficient.  I have heard that $20.00 of petrol will get you to Dubai and back.

They are silver or grey.  There is no room, in the people-mover realm, for special paint finishes. They have tints.  This is so that no one can see inside; the shame that lives within.

They have foot-operated handbrakes, some of them. They have seat covers featuring Tazmania and Tweety Bird.

If you hate sex, get a people mover.  You’ll be left alone, to drive asexually around the streets of New Zealand, asexually drinking your Wild Bean coffee.  You can rest that in one of the 65 cup holders.


  1. Good call on the people movers, they are horrid.
    My favorite ‘I’ve given up trying’ marker is the ‘man-sandal’.
    Is anything more depressing than seeing a mans fleshy while calf disappearing into one those horrible tan utilitarian nightmares?

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