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The pickup’s white sides were extravagantly deflowered by wide spattering arcs of mud, and a sticker on the back window read, “I [heart] vaginas.”
This was a truck. This wasn’t one of your prissy little suburban SUVs that never saw anything more off-road than a gravel-lined driveway. This truck had tires up to my waist, treads deep enough to bury the bodies of all the tattooed, beer-swilling men standing next to it, and their egos, too. This truck ran over soccer moms – in their Cadillac Escalades. This truck ate Godzilla. This truck had attitude. Truckitude.
Platonic, is what it was.
This was a truck. This wasn’t one of your prissy little suburban SUVs that never saw anything more off-road than a gravel-lined driveway. This truck had tires up to my waist, treads deep enough to bury the bodies of all the tattooed, beer-swilling men standing next to it, and their egos, too. This truck ran over soccer moms – in their Cadillac Escalades. This truck ate Godzilla. This truck had attitude. Truckitude.
Platonic, is what it was.
