I currently live in an expanding area known collectively as Southern Utah, which is basically a couple of cities in the south west corner of the state. St. George is a smallish city surrounded by little cities. All you need to do is cross the street and tada! You’re in a new city, you know, technically.
The redneck community here is huge; mostly because they’re protected by the predominant religious group that more or less encourages the behavior (and vice versa). I think they’re called Mormons or something.
One of the consequences of this fine social arrangement is their are big, diesel eating, trucks everywhere. I don’t mean fun, sporty off-road trucks, I mean in order to get a truck bigger than the ones you see all around town, you would have take a class and get your drivers license updated. These trucks guzzle the diesel fuel and have hoods that are eye level and wheels small children can hide behind without ducking.
“What’s the big deal, Bastard? Nothing wrong with a truck, right?”
To which I respond, “SHUT UP! QUIT QUESTIONING ME AT EVERY TURN!”
But, after the rage fades back from my red filled vision, I’d help you back up, lend you a handkerchief for your freshly bloodied nose and point out it’s one thing to have a lifestyle that demands you have a vehicle of that sort—boats to get to the lake, ATV’s to transport, large quantities of uncut coke to smuggle, etc—but it’s another thing entirely to have a truck just for truck’s sake.
We call them “Dudes in a truck,” (to be said like you were Samuel L. Jackson talking about Snakes on a muffuggin’ Plane*) and we make fun of their penis size--clearly they're they're packing huge. They really are everywhere.
A Dude in a Truck will not let you pass him on the freeway. To get buy these fuckers you have to speed up 10-15mph. A Dude in a Truck will not help you move less the paint get scratched. Most Dudes in Trucks have been off road in their 4x4 equipped monsters twice--both times on accident.
When the weather is nice and you're about town with the windows rolled down, you can hear these diesel fueled beasts humming at every red light. One such evening found me first in line at a red light, and to my right at the line with me was a Dude in a Truck.
I was driving my Caddy—the ’88 Eldorado kind, and I was bored enough to be toying with the idea of provoking the Dude. All it would take to utilize the eight cylinders under my hood was a heavy foot on accelerate once the light turned. Dudes in Trucks can not tolerate lesser vehicles taking on airs or acting better in any way shape or form, especially whenever it comes to the question of another vehicle daring to go faster.
It wouldn't be hard to do. He would most likely just speed past me and high five whoever was riding along with him. It didn't seem worth it.
Until I looked in my rear view and saw the telltale bumps in the silhouette of hood lights atop of a cop car two cars behind me.
The light turned and I hit the gas. I got up to the legal speed limit—35mph, before I was even across the intersection (god help me I love a Caddy) and The Dude couldn't help help but notice and respond in kind. After I got up to legal speed, I eased off the accelerator and the Dude and his Truck easily flew by me, his diesel engine all but shouting “OUT OF THE WAY, JERKASS, ME AND MY HUGE COCK HAVE THREE PARKING SPOTS TO GO PARK IN!”
Seconds later, so did the cop, lights flashing.
I laughed the whole way home. It took a few minutes to compose myself and explain my split side to Mrs. Bastard. Granted, the cop who pulled The Dude in a Truck over was probably his second cousin or a church mate of some kind. But even if he didn’t get a ticket—it feels like a victory, and that’s how I score it.
*I still haven't seen this muffuggin' movie
Thursday, June 4. 2009
Dude in a Truck
Soooon!
We are getting this thing going again. In the meantime, rest assured I have been writing new content and will be re-posting the old stuff.
Posted by The Bastard Himself
at
12:22
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