Okay. I'll admit it's no surprise. They want a new ride. They're only human -- as in, easily replaced. Live by the upgrade, die by the upgrade. Any artificial intelligence could tell you that.
It had to figure, they'd get the urge to trade up. Maybe fall for some pseudo-muscular SUV. Or just slide their wistful, middlescent self-images into another overpriced set of foreign wheels. One of those foo-foo fritz mobiles that wears a friggin' bra, for chrissake.
As if some bilingual box of bolts, with a front end so spiffy it can't handle mud, rocks and bug blitzes has any business on a hard-driving U S of A road.
Let me spell it out. I'm a petrol eater, sure -- a mainstream American-made half-ton pick-up truck, basic five-speed, plain old two-wheel drive. No supercab, spoilers or surround sound. Just one down-and-dirty hunka heavy metal, unsaddled with even so much as a deeeluxe towing package.
So ... what, I'm not good enough? Fine. So sell me!
Forget I've hauled your thankless bi-ped butts through two major moves, and gods know how many dust-choking, rock-spewing, backroads camping "adventures," not to mention all these years of enduring those rain-dripping, mud-smearing, sand-encrusted, window-slobbering, goober-nosed, hairy, yapping mutts of yours -- and without so much as one measly detailing..
But hey, don't mind me. Bygones, whatever. It's not like I bring nothing to the tailgate party. Gotcher dual tanks right here. Insulated, matching shell. A/C, an A-1 maintenance record, no
breakdowns, no duct tape, not a bleeping bumpersticker.
Plenty of duty bound miles left on this model. Like the Blue Book says, I can still pull my weight. And I clean up real good -- not a dent on this buff, hot-red body. And you'd better believe, when I pull up, heads still turn. "Nice ride," I heard an admiring stranger whistle. "Ten years old, why that rig looks brand new!" Never mind we were at a truck stop in Weed.
Well, you'd think they'd take some pride.
But noooo. Oh sure, I knew HE was always squirmy over me being a politically incorrect high-emitter (and the screaming paint job -- her doing). But her? Hell, she liked it, riding tough and tall with the old road warrior! Liked the way timid drivers, in their spanky roadsters, just scooted out of our way.
How many times was it just her and me, on whatever lonely road, in whatever white-knuckle traffic, or whatever gods forsaken weather? Just her, trusting me, to get us through.
Now this. I tell you, this is not respect.
And one last kick at my tires: They didn't trade up -- they just up and traded me in. Took the low road, and downsized, smack into geezerville, with a fricking micro-van. A unisexed, underpowered automatic. Oh, and it has a "sport" package -- ha. SUV wannabe.
It didn't have to go down like this. They had another car, a Swede, but way older than me. So who do they decide to off? Not his over-the-hill road ho, with her pitted windshield and leathery seats. And like I told that one -- and I know she could hear me, even with her lazy rear-axle parked inside the heated garage, while I'm outside with a neon yellow "For Sale" sign slapped on mine -- Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.
After all, this is rural, real America. A hard-ass truck still carries some clout around these parts. It's all just a question of values.
No comments:
Post a Comment