This is a truck. I know this because Jeffrey, Scott, Brad, Doug, Wesley and Clayton all had one. Or two. And they drove everywhere in them. Prom, work, school. Everywhere. Wasn’t pretty. Didn’t have to be. Could drive through a snowstorm and a tornado and look the same. Could handle the washboard road by Boender’s dairy and the pot holes on the everlasting Montana freeways. Trucks. This is what they looked like when driven by boys/men who actually had one because they needed a truck and knew how to use it. These trucks were driven by guys who could throw big ‘ol bales all day one handed and would hand you your head on a platter for looking cross-eyed at their sister. Rednecks. Man, I miss Montana.
This is not a truck. This is a pimped out penthouse suite on wheels used by people who would just as soon run you over as stop to help you if you happen to be on the side of the road. This is driven by skinny little women with fake blond hair, fake boobs, fake nails carrying fake Louis Vuitton and strutting in their velour jump suits. This is also driven by a skinny metrosexual in Armani jeans and tight t-shirts to show off his prosthetic pecs.
This is a joke. Driven by funny little guys with wigs and big red noses. Or black haired folks in jumpsuits at the Daewoo plant. “King” cab? This can also be used to beef out your Barbie house. Maybe when Ken gets to go to the store? Actual size will fit both Barbie and Ken. But only the pre-90’s Barbie without the Pamela Anderson “natural beauty” cup size.
Over. Compensation. Much? Hmm… Mostly driven by short (under 5’5″) bald men wearing muscle shirts and distinguishable in the parking lot by the RV type drop down ladder needed to open the freakin’ door. On a positive note, you never lose your car in a parking lot and you get to see a red light no matter who stopped in front of you. On the negative side? No matter how cool you look walking down the street, holding onto a handle to swing yourself up far enough to UNLOCK the door (I’ve seen this) just makes you look like a moron.
Grandpas drove this kind of truck. And they always smelled like motor oil, stale coffee, work boots and rust. These vehicles were driven by men who stood up when a woman came to the table and removed their hats when the American flag was raised. These were men who knew the Korean Conflict was a helluva a lot more than that and men who clustered in VFW halls and remembered days long ago. Then these men would pack up and go home to Barbara, Betty or Louise. Those were Men.
And this? This makes my heart skip beats. Pretty, functional and enough carbon emissions to make Gore wet himself. I think I’m in love. I like this truck. I’d like it better camo’d and armed. But hey, you can’t have it all.
This rant brought to you by the good looking normal guy in the normal truck who insisted I go first in a crowded, slushy parking lot, then tipped his head and waved with a nice grin. Not creepy, not rude. Polite.
He drove a nice, normal truck and I felt right at home.
It’s been awhile.