Lost in Translation?

For years, I had Zymurgy plates on my car. It's a tax on vanity, those personalized plates, but hey.

People would ask me who tis Zymur Guy was, and I'd say I make my own beer. Zymurgy was a cool vanity plate: it's the last word in a lot of dictionaries, the science and study of fermentation.

And has there ever been a higher calling? I mean, pasty-faced brunettes even taller than me and big rockets are awesome, but beer is the bomb and a bag of chips.

At least good beer is. I'll take the hot chick and/or rocket over American pseudo-Pils crap any day.



Anyway, on my commute, I see a lot of stupid personalized plates. And some clever ones, but few on a Zymurgy level.

This one, for instance, falls short not only for failing to bring up the topic of beer, but for being ambiguous.

At first glance, I thought this was a dentist's minivan. Plack Attacker, right?

But then I got to thinking, maybe this is a person with a heavy marijuana habit and terrible taste in music.

The Polka Toker. You be the judge, but I'm not putting some seriously stoned Lawrence Welk viewing past this motorist.