Maxed Out 

Big truck, big man

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So I’ve been thinkin’ about buying a big truck again. Not that I once owned a big truck and want another one, not that kind of again. But I once thought about buying a big truck and now I’m thinking about buying a big truck again. That kind of again.

You know the sort of truck I’m talking about. Big. Big tires with big burly-looking knobs of black rubber sticking out every which direction, tires really capable of digging into whatever they roll across and transmitting all those horsepower into dust-raising, dirt-spewing locomotion. Maybe a rack of lights mounted on a rollbar hugging the contours of its extend-o-cab, a trailer hitch capable of pulling a big boat or maybe a fifth-wheel hitch in the bed to haul my chalet wherever I go. That kind of big truck.

The big truck is, as hinted above, just a start. What the hell good is a big truck if you don’t have some big thing to haul or pull around with it? No good at all, I’d say. A statement without a real voice, a meal with no dessert.

So I’d wanna get me a couple of big, fast snowmobiles to haul around on my big truck. Not those pussy, underpowered-overpriced four-stroke snowmobiles that don’t make much noise and burn fuel as efficiently as a thrill machine can burn it. No way, dude; I’m makin’ a statement here. I’m after those big, loud, go-anywhere, climb-anything, leap tall buildings, run Bambi to the ground, blue-smokin’, high-revvin’ snowmobiles, the kind that can reduce an untouched snowscape into a snow-sculpted Los Angeles freeway scene in no time flat. Hell, there’s a lot of backcountry around here to get to and I’m just certain somewhere out there there’s a cornice no one’s been filmed jumpin’ off. What a waste.

And let’s face it, what’s a big truck without a big recreational vehicle to pull around? I mean, what kind of crunchy granola moron goes camping in an uncomfortable, cramped, damp, smelly tent? Loser. If I really wanted to eat freeze-dried kibble and lug my world around on my back I’d… I’d… well, I wouldn’t even know how to finish this sentence. Where’s the glamour in that? Where’s the sense of entitlement, the wanton heady rush you get when you know you’re doing your part to debunk the myth of climate change?

Give me three bedrooms, pop-out bay windows, a microwave convection oven, 32 inch plasma TV, satellite dish, hot tub and a walk-in freezer any day. Now that’s campin’.

Besides, when you’ve got 800 diesel-burnin’ horsepower just beggin’ to be challenged, how in the world are you going to drive your mileage down into single digits if you just cruise around town or down to the corner for milk with nothin’ but air in the back of your big truck? You’re not! It’s as simple as that. Without those sleds in the back or that really cool fifth-wheel, you’re just screaming "Driver Has Tiny Dick" to everyone you pass.

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