I Hate Pickup Trucks
There is nothing cool about owning a pickup truck without purpose. Farmer - fine. Professional dirt bike racer - fine. Mexican - fine. Own a barn - fine. But if you're a suburban dad who works at a law firm and you own a F-150 with 30 inch tires, I hope you burn your house down while grilling hamburgers for your fat, stupid kids. You are a shithead. Just because your hair is thinning and because you can't get it up anymore does not give you permission to buy a truck that your wife needs a stepladder to get in to.
I fucking hate pickup trucks. If there was an official emblem for fucking douchebags, there would be a hick pickup owner and a hipster mini-cooper owner fucking each other on it. Unless you are one of the aforementioned people from the beginning of this post, there is no purpose to owning a pickup, besides tailgating at NASCAR events and filling the truck-bed with Milwaukee's Best and yelling at women with cankles and getting a terrible sunburn and then going home and hitting your wife and getting arrested with no shirt on. Pickups were created for a reason - to move shit that normal cars could not, from point A to point B, not for you to drive in circles in a mud patch and listen to mashups of Kid Rock and Garth Brooks.
Whenever I'm on the highway and a pickup truck goes speeding past me at the fucking speed of light, I silently pray it fishtails and then skids into a deep ravine, shattering into a million pieces, then explodes into a fiery hell to burn away any DNA remnants of the asshole who was driving the truck. Maybe I just need to understand why, why you insist on driving 90 mph on a back road and kick rocks at my fucking windshield? Where are you going? Do you have to shit real bad? If that's the case, then fine, drive like a madman, but if you are just so inbred that you NEED to drive like Ray-fucking-Charles, than you deserve nothing less than a telephone pole sandwich.
And nothing gets me more than pickup truck decor. Oh, you have Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes pissing on Osama Bin Laden's face on your mudflaps? Wow, what a patriot you are! Go fuck yourself in a sauna, have a heart attack, and die. And what about that confederate flag painted on your back window? I bet you feel real cool dropping racial slurs with your friends Bubba and Jim Lee and Hank and Stinky, but why don't you go carouse a neighborhood that isn't more interested in Bobby Labonte's favorite snack food than the social progression of the 21st century, you fucking hillbilly. Oh look at that, you have a sticker that says OBX on the back window? Now that's telling, considering all the fucking rough and tumble tough guys who go brawl outside their 12 bedroom beach houses in Nags Head.
This weekend was like the gumball rally of asshole pickup truck drivers. Every motherfucker with a flat bed took to the roads, tail gating and menacing 89-year-old retirees on their way to see their grandchildren, weaving through traffic nearly clipping every car out of sight range, determined to not miss another minute of fucking fun in Myrtle Beach, Ocean City, or Wildwood. And why not? This is America, goddammit. Go ahead and drink that six pack of Bud Heavy you have in the console and go ahead and put camping lights on your truck even though you couldn't start a fucking fire with a canister of gasoline and a flamethrower. Go ahead and whistle at girls who would rather ingest cyanide tablets than spend three seconds smelling your Skoal breath. Go ahead and beat up those Guatemalan immigrants and throw your empty Mountain Dew bottles out the window and go ahead and trim your Fu-Man-Chu 'stache. You fucking earned it, you paid your taxes, right? You're a goddamn pickup truck owner!
Real men don't need pickups to feel like a bad-ass. Like Lee Marvin. Lee Marvin probably drove a Chevy Impala. And he probably pulled more ass driving a stock Impala than you ever will in your souped-up Dodge. I bet he fucking slapped guys like you and then drank a bottle of Jack Daniels and smoked two packs of unfiltered Lucky Strikes. You know why? Because he was a fucking man, not some half-wit in jean shorts rocking Hanes high socks and all black Adidas from 1998.