The perfect sick van--much like the perfect outfit or the perfect tax return--is made in the details. You'll notice that sick vans come in many different models and makes and production years. It's not the body style that makes it sick--it's in the little layers, details, and nuances that make a van go from simply "junky" or "ugly" to truly "sick."

The kind of sick that makes you point and laugh.

The kind of sick that makes you not want to walk next to it in a parking lot for fear the sliding door will bolt open to reveal some toothless pervert ready to pull you inside.

And hopefully, the kind of sick that makes you do a U-turn and pull out your camera so you can snap a few pics to send to me (thanks, you know who you are).

Specifically, it's the body damage that has the ability to catapult a van from decent to divine, from so-so to so, so effing sweet.



Take this specimen. It has all the fundamentals--the weird paint job, the curtains, the luggage rack, the rust, the sliding windows. But it still needs something more.

But wait...what is this?


...a windshield that looks like it got pounded by some trailer park skank with a tire iron. Hell yes, that's exactly what it needed.

How about two mysterious red scratches that run the entire length of the van that, for some reason, give it the perfect touch of ickiness? Perfect!

A duct taped piece of cardboard in lieu of a back windshield. Fo' show.

A crinkled door that against all expectations--and probably surprising to even the savviest of structural engineer--they actually got to close. Right-O.



An aborted attempt at repair. Why didn't they finish it? It makes you wonder--what did they run out of?

Time?
Money?
Expertise?
Earwax Gold paint?
Tequila?

How did Tony get a babe like Judith Light rolling a whack ass, rusted-out piece like that?