Grow Some Hair On Your Sack And Buy A Truck Already You Worthless Beta Male

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Hey, jabroni. You tired of wasting away your youth restricted by things like asphalt roads and traffic laws? Does your bitch ass 4-banger under the hood struggle to make it over speed bumps like raccoons or baby deer? Is your girl ashamed to be seen with the impotent, frail boy that you look in the mirror daily? Grow a little fuzz on those peaches, add some inches to your piece, and buy a fucking truck. It’s not just an all-terrain vehicle; it’s an all-terrain way of life.

Being a truck guy is hitting the open highway and taking in the crisp wintergreen aroma of mother nature, not from the woods lining the road or an alpine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview, but from that Copenhagen tin that perpetually sits in the center console. They let the rush of the wind flow through their left arm hanging out of the window and down to their fully torqued hogs as they run any asshole not going ten over the speed limit out of the right lane, and off the road altogether. They’re Magellan meets Lewis and Clark meets Christopher Columbus because nothing’s holding back their adventurous loving ass — general direction and native residents included. You on board yet? Fine, diva. Let’s continue.

You’re a king perched up on his noble throne in a truck, looking down on all the countless peasants in mid-sized sedans. A superior being that can tow a parade of traveling circus elephants, but chooses to never haul more than a golf bag. A damn demigod among mortals capable of virtually anything.

Old dirt road? No problem, you spontaneous motherfucker. You want to impress that lady friend of yours and seal the deal? Hit the country, hurl some red clay with those tires, and get lost in the backwoods where no one can hear her scream. Uh, that didn’t come across right…but it doesn’t matter because pulling tail is going to be as challenging to a truck guy as turning the ignition. I sure hope you can swim, because otherwise you’ll be drowning in TOTALLY CONSENTING LEGAL pussy.

Being a truck guy means leaving women more soaked than a cherubic pee wee football player who turned down rides from other parents in favor of waiting on his alcoholic father to pick him up from a storm-canceled practice. It also means being that shithead dad.

It’s a warning to every other non-truck driving, sack-less, beta male — that they best stay inside and hide their woman if they want any hope in keeping her around. Though, it’s not a guarantee. Truck guys will kick in your front door and steal your girl right under your nose.

Truck guys are solely responsible for holes in the o-zone. Not from burning too much gas or releasing harmful greenhouse emissions into the atmosphere, but from the dangerous levels of fuck funk ascended into the heavens from the amount of pipe they lay. They’re just spreading their wild oats — across this great country of ours — one psychotic hair dresser at a time.

You ever want to bone on the top of Mount Kilimanjaro? You’re in luck. Drop that tailgate for that honey sitting shotty, watch the sun set over the Amarillo sky, kick back on that bed liner of yours, and enjoy. It’s essentially the same rigid and rugged experience without having to actually step foot on that wasteland of a continent.

Being a truck guy is about asserting your dominance, hanging oversized testicles from your trailer hitch to symbolize your own massive cahoonas, and unnecessarily taking up four parking spots. It’s about blaring country music and wearing camo despite never hunting or fishing. REAL TEXAS COUNTRY. Not that pop bullshit. It’s about being able to toss the pigskin around in your whitewashed Wrangler jeans at a moment’s notice. And, most importantly, truck life is about being an option to help a friend move, but being so unbearable of an individual that doing a favor for that person just isn’t worth it in their eyes.

So stop merely existing, and start fucking living. Buy a damn truck already.


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