I’m the other guy…strapped in my plastic capsule, screaming layers of malodorous rubber from the green light in my high-torqueing, compressing, revving, Empire-of-the-Sun piece of Yuppie import. After a half-mile of tachometer-exploding acceleration, I’m four-wheeling, disk-braking to a forehead-to-the-windshield shattering stop at the next red light. I’m the other guy, 7 and 3/8 inches behind your rear bumper. I get thoroughly chapped if you tap your brake lights. I love my pickup with its 18 fog lights and all-terrain tires that are taller than the average NBA super-stud. From the front end with the Venus De Milo hood ornament to the rear bumper sticker which shrieks, “Yes, I Do Own the Road”, I consider all other cars as mere road humps. The streets are my own private drag strip.
My thoughts are strictly on women drivers: “Drive naked. Thrill a trucker”. Oh, by the way, I don’t brake for Volvos. The last time I had my truck inspected was during the Carter administration. The number of traffic tickets I’ve accumulated is matched only by the empty beer cans behind the seat. Any day now, you’ll look in your rearview mirror and there I’ll be, about 7 and 3/8 inches off your back bumper, and all you can see is my shiny chrome grille. At that moment, you may wonder if you’re fully insured. Oops, the rope that holds my hood down just broke. Oh well, this is the “other guy” signing off. Maybe we’ll run into each other.
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