In the last 90 years, vanity plates have become the ultimate 🖕 to boring bumpers. It began back in the ‘30s when some posh New Yorker decided his Model-T needed to scream “I’M SPECIAL”. By the ‘50s, states were cashing in as every wannabe hotshot slapped “HOTROD69” or “LIVLONG” on their rides. Today it’s become a $1.5 billion state and local side hustle. I learned about the vanity plate phenomenon 4 years ago when I moved to New Hampshire.

I’m a Broncos diehard—raised on Elway’s Super Bowl glory, with Gramp’s 40-yard-line season tickets still in the family— and I landed in New Hampshire post-pandemic after 15 years without a car. As for the vehicle, I wanted to get back to my roots. So, I snagged a gritty old ‘94 Toyota Pickup with a stick shift, crank windows, and the same 1.8L engine as my first car. This vintage dinker has basically become my soul on wheels.

When I went to register it in Portsmouth, the DMV lady got me thinking. She said “Vanity plates are popular and cheap as hell up here in New Hampshire. Especially, for that old-ass truck you’re registering.” With the hard sell at hand and a line of irritated DMV patrons stacking up, I had to make a quick decision. Instead of “BRNCO4L,” I go full troll: “PTRIOT.” Yeah, Patriot, in New England, where Tom Brady’s smug dynasty lingers like a bad hangover. It’s my cowboy middle finger to the Pats, a nod to my Denver roots clashing with this preppy wonderland.

Portsmouth, New Hampshire became my playground within an oasis— it’s the West Village meets Nantucket with its artsy vibe, cozy brew pubs, and cobblestone charm. That “PTRIOT” plate? The perfect conversation starter and door opener around town. I’m cruising, and bartenders toss me free ciders (I don’t drink, but I’ll take the love). At The Press Room, some flannel dude buys me a seltzer just to rib me about my plate, laughing, “Broncos fan, huh? Ballsy!” Another night at Book & Bar, a table of hipsters debates Elway versus Brady while sliding me virgin mojitos. My pickup’s tailgate is basically a talk show, and I’m soaking up Portsmouth’s magic, thinking I’ve nailed it.

Fast forward and earlier this year I moved back to Atlanta. Holy $hit! “PTRIOT” went from a sports fan conversation starter to a moving target. Atlanta’s got some raw history, and recent political static makes folks twitchy. I’m rolling around town with unintentional hostile energy tagged on my back, and it’s trouble. First, it’s dirty looks, then middle fingers, someone flashes what I swear is a gun, and the kicker? Some dude pulls up at a stoplight, locks eyes, and spits a loogie on my window. My poor pickup’s been catching strays down here! Georgia’s DMV puts me through six weeks of hell—paperwork, inspections, maybe a blood oath—to register my vintage rig.

So, as I was rounding my final lap of this DMV nightmare and getting ready to move on from my vanity plate drama, I decided to give it another go. “BLESSED”? Nah, too sappy. “FAMILY”? Minivan vibes. “LIVIN”? Snooze.

It’s gotta be me—rugged, authentic, unapologetic. Boom: “GRNTHMB.” Green Thumb is now blazed across my tailgate! It’s growth, grit, and zero fucks given all wrapped into a Georgia vanity plate. In Atlanta, it’s safe enough to dodge spit, but bold enough to spark chats with the local Dead Heads.

Check out my pickup’s new flex—proof you can rise from a plate-induced shitstorm and roll like a boss.