As I pumped about $70 worth of liquid gold into my tank in preparation for the three-day weekend established to memorialize three-day weekends, I noticed that the guy next to me put quadruple that into his.
His was attached to one of those ginormous RV things that always seem to be in front of me on the mountain passes of Colorado.
A friend has one of these. He says they get about six miles to the gallon. I think he’s got that reversed.
Those monstrosities are a pet peeve of mine, and so are their RV’s. Admittedly, that alone is not a knock on them. Regular readers (I know I’m flattering both you and me to suggest there’s anything regular about my readers) are aware that I have an entire petting zoo of pet peeves that I lovingly pet.
I’m always tempted to say to the pilots of these Hindenburgs, “Excuse me, sir, but I just came from the direction that you’re headed. I can assure you they have motels in that direction. I’ve seen them. So why are you bringing a little house on wheels along with you?”
To which our Lindbergh in the Hindenburg might growl, “’Cuz I wanna camp.”
To which I would reply, “So, again, why are you bringing that little house on wheels along with you?”
As I drove away, I noticed that his little house on wheels was towing a car bigger than mine. There’s something mixed up about this scene, especially when you factor in that a-hole Vladimir Putin.
And then there are the pickup trucks. You know, the big black ones with black windows. Everything about these pickups is black except the driver. You never see a black person driving a pickup.
They have names like “Ram” or “Titan” or “Malignancy” or “”Canyonero” or “Leviathan” or “Jim Crow.” (I made up some of those names; it’s telling that you don’t know which.)
Pickup trucks used to be two-seaters, but now they all have a back seat too. Behind the back seat is the flat part. That flat part is called the “bed,” and I don’t want to know why. Altogether, it’s something like a gargantuan car with an open-air trunk.
In the old days, the purpose of the bed was obvious. You loaded it with the dogs and kids so that they didn’t distract you from Waylon Jennings on the 8-track. But now that’s frowned upon. You’re not supposed to put dogs in the pickup bed. Or on the roof.
You can get a hint of the purpose of the bed by looking into it. This bed is always beautifully made. This bed has seen nothing but down comforters, an occasional chocolate mint, and maybe some chew.
Another clue is in the grille. Not the Weber BBQ in the glove compartment, but the front radiator grille between the headlights, which are 9 feet above the pavement. There’s no danger of a deer being caught in these headlights. Heck, the whole truck could easily straddle an eight-point deer and the deer would emerge unscathed from under the chrome tail pipe.
But on the U-turn, the 30-06 in the gun rack would get him. Big time.
These grilles are designed to imitate a Mack truck or maybe a locomotive. They are expressly intended to intimidate other drivers. I suspect they were designed by the same people who designed scary-looking black assault rifles.
Connect these dots, which are about the size of truck tires. The purpose of these assault trucks is the same as the purpose of assault rifles: Self-defense.
No, just kidding. The real purpose of both is of course to de-emasculate the owner. Regarding the automobile, the Porsche company got out-maneuvered by American and then even Japanese(!) manufacturers in the market for virility-enhancing transportation, now available at your nearest male showroom clinic.
The standard prescribed treatment looks something like this: The driver plunks down half a year’s salary for a down payment and then commits to paying monthly lease rates approximating one-twelfth his yearly salary. Then he shoots off with his BBC – his Big Black Car. His woman swoons.
Whenever he spots a threat to his manhood – another car on the road – he accelerates to within inches of the competitor’s rear bumper and seeks to penetrate said rear bumper with his BBC like a MoFo who sees a dropped soap bar in the showers at Leavenworth. His woman swoons some more.
Never mind what lane the competitor is in. Left lane, right lane, turn lane, straight lane, curvy lane, gay lane, whatever. Our patient’s goal is not to arrive at geographical coordinates, but to get where he’s going. Where he’s going is to own the guy in front of him.
Of course, these needle-dicks are the ones who bitch loudest about high gas prices, oblivious to the fact that they could lower their costs dramatically if they just traded in their manhood-enhancing gas guzzlers for ordinary cars. Doing so might also lower the price of gas for everyone by lessening the demand for it.
Back to the question posed at the outset. If gas costs too much, then why do “people” still “buy” and “drive” these “vehicles”? If their manhood is so diminutive that they require this interventional treatment, then they surely can’t afford it. Is it possible that Medicaid is covering it?
It’s one of life’s mysteries, right up there with the question of why their women swoon at this spectacle (though I suspect they’re faking it).
Until answers arrive, I’m comforted by the fact that I personally can still afford to fill-er-up (I only get mid-grade, mind you, and so my performance is not as good as it used to be) while it costs these guys nearly a lease payment. I look forward to gas at $11/gallon.