As Promised, Introducing My Truck, “Whitey”*

Posted: December 23, 2011 in Don't Ever Read Ever, Humor, Rants, Uncategorized

*not the truck’s name, just something inflammatory to piss the niggas** off.

**Not a racist slur because there’s no “r”, plus it’s a word I heard in rap music.***

***I actually don’t listen to rap, but I imagine if I did, I’d hear that word… Or the rapper’s name a thousand times…

ANYHOO…

Here’s my truck; I can’t call it new.  In fact, I can’t call it all; it hasn’t paid its phone bill in years.  But it is a truck; here it is; a 2006 Dodge Ram 1500.  3.7 litre supercharged… nah it’s not super-anything, let alone charged.  But it is fun to drive, so it gets points for that.  Plus, I sit up higher than everyone else which confirms my superiority.  It’s white, cause I’m white and if I’m a white guy with a black truck, well, the neighbors would talk – and no one wants that.  They haven’t brushed their teeth in days and they’re fond of curry.  Plus they have no concept of personal space. The truck is a 6-speed manual tranny (around here, trannies are called “kane mahus” and it’s part of the culture so DON’T POKE FUN… trust me, they poke back; with the business end of their penises, but that’s a story for another day.) Where was I? Oh yes… 6-speed.  So yea, it’s a 6-speed.  It gets confusing when I’m on the freeway and have six different gears to choose from.  I usually just pull over to the side, throw on my hazards, and start crying.  Then I call my mahu friends for support.

Anyway, it’s just about as stripped down of a vehicle that you can actually purchase from someone who isn’t a Nigerian rebel or Venezuelan drug lord; it doesn’t have Bluetooth, MP3 capabilities, cruise control, power windows, or power locks.  Probably not even airbags; I mean, it says airbags are there, but there’s really only one way to find out and I’m not about to crash into a cop just to confirm a useless feature.  A guy came up and asked me if ‘that thing got a hemi’ [sic] and I said, “Yea, right next to the shut the fuck up, dick face.”  Needless to say we don’t really keep in touch anymore.

Oh! And one of the seats doesn’t work.  Yep.  You try to sit in it and it says, “Uh-uh.  No, siree. Yo no trabajo.” I think it unionized or something.  I got a letter to that effect some days ago.  Anyway, because I don’t have the energy to figure out how a truck seat knows Español but can’t be sat in (or I’m too lazy to make up a reason for this blog post that no one will read) we’ll just leave it be for now.

Now, I mentioned above that it doesn’t have power locks.  This is only a half truth (a half-lie for which half of me will go to half-Hell… carry the one… okay; so a quarter of me will suffer for all eternity… I choose left leg.); it does lock both doors automatically when I hit 15 MPH and it does unlock both doors when I turn the engine off.  So Yes, I do have to reach across the enormous center console thing-a-ma-jigger and the dirty Mexican seat (dirty [Mexican seat], not [dirty Mexican] seat) and lock the door myself every time I don’t want my truck stolen when I’m in the ghetto trying to find my reason to live for twenty bucks a gram. I’m sorry, but I don’t get paid extra to lock my door.  So until it starts not unlocking itself, my things will just be left unsecured.

truck1

This first shot was supposed to capture the beauty of the Hawaiian mountain range in the background set against the sun… uh, setting… But that was a bust cause of my suck-shit phone camera so instead it’s just an awkward angle photo; much like any photo that’s ever been taken of me.

truck2

This next one was supposed to show the Chinooks  on the airfield in the background. It kind of worked, I guess.

truck3

This is the angle that I see this truck from mostly as I’m walking toward it after getting the mail or any other such menial task that I should be having servants do for me. It reminds me that it’s the worst truck ever. It’s the most boring, plain-Jane, run-of-the -mill, production-line fleet vehicle ever. It’s okay though. At least it’s American-made, right? Then again, so is George W. Bush and… and… John Wayne Gacy… and… pizza…

Anyway, I’ve numbed myself to the truck’s boringness and chosen to see the silver lining.  Yes, that’s right: that I will die soon or at the very least, eventually.

Well, I hope you enjoyed getting to know my truck as much as I have; in fact, if you didn’t, you’d be actively packing C4 into the rear wheel well as we speak; waiting with baited breath for me to turn the key and blowing the whole pile sky-high in a glorious plume of destruction rivaled only by that above Nagasaki on their not-so-best of days.  “Jason’s life;” You say to yourself, “A small price to pay for the destruction of such a stupid car.”

Perhaps someday it will end its existence with Joe Rogan in a ridiculous stunt on “Fear Factor.”  But for now, it’s my baby and thank Atheist God (or whoever it is we don’t pray to) that I’m done with this blog post; I usually don’t Google “Hawaiin transvestite” on government computers.  No, that honor is reserved for the shame of my dark, dirty, dank, sad, and lonely barracks room when I’m covered in what could only be a mix of boldily fluids (a small percentage my own) and cooking oil (non-hydrogenated, of course; we ALL know trans fats are bad… wait… “trans” fats? hmm…).

Peace, yall!

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