Sleep With All The Sports Cars You Can, But Marry The Subaru

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Like any respectable man, there is more to me than having the ability to pee anywhere I want and the occasional drunken shout-along to “Mr. Brightside.” What people don’t see is the arm-chair philosopher with a hankering for a great analogy. And with my sophisticated philosophical process (i.e tossing a Vyvanse down the gullet while people-watching outside the Student Union), I was able to devise the perfect analogy for navigating the treacherous pavements of the Hoo-Ha Highway that leads straight to Lock-This-Chick-Down Town.

Women are like cars. They require maintenance. You will want to pack all of your junk in their backseat. And while they can be beautiful on the outside, underneath the hood is a complex system that you pretend to understand when you hang out with your boys. And just like cars, women come in all different makes and models.

The first type of girl is the “Sports Car” — Porsches, Ferraris, Corvettes, Mustangs. These girls are the sorority girls, the exotic exchange girl, and the bombshell in Lulus whose gym schedule is synced with yours. These girls turn heads wherever they go. They will give you one helluva ride, and they will make everyone think you’re packing some serious dick. These girls are made for sex, and although you’ll more than likely blow your load upon entry, you still get in the driver’s seat. But as beautiful as she is, the day will come when you say “What the fuck am I doing?” You’ll throw out a few hundred thousand dollars on her and she’ll keep demanding more. The smallest bumps in the road have the potential to totally fuck her up. And when your high speed relationship spins out of control, you will undoubtedly die (RIP Paul Walker). And as you’re stuck in bumper to bumper traffic while a guy in his Honda Civic scoots by you, you’ll realize that maybe all of that horsepower wasn’t the best way to convince people you had a monster hangdown.

The next type of girl is “The Mid-Sized Sedan” — Jettas, Civics, Camrys. These girls are respectable. They smile, they put out, they probably even cook a good meal. They do everything right. But these girls are fucking boring. If you walk through any college campus, these are the girls that are always surrounding you, but you never seem to notice them. Sure, these girls will find love. Sure, these girls will make someone happy. They might even make you happy at a certain point in your life. But this car is not the vehicle you want to put your penis in for the rest of eternity.

“The Truck” is perhaps the most deceptive breed. This girl isn’t as high maintenance as the sports car. She takes speed bumps like a fucking champion. This girl stands out in a crowd; she ain’t no bitch-ass Civic. Instead of gas, she is guzzling beer and semen. You’ll find yourself saying “this is the one.” She does a ton of cool shit and is practically one of the guys. And although definitely female, she has metaphorical truck-nuts hanging from her soul. This girl is fun. But this isn’t the girl you marry. The thing about “truck girl” that every man must know: She gets fat. As she ages, her unhealthy habits will increase as her metabolism decreases. You’ll burst into a fit of horny rage and sadness when you realize you can’t get hard while (unsuccessfully) trying to parallel park this giant burden to which you’ve dedicated your life.

Finally: “The Subaru.” She will always fit into the compact car spot at the mall. She loves going out and doing stuff, no road is too rough, she can support a family, and she’ll even smoke a joint with you. She’s reliable. She’s low maintenance. The perfect mixture of strong and cute. So what that she talks about trees and flowers and shit? That’s endearing. And yeah, so what she asked you to eat salad more. It’s because she cares about things other than herself. Be grateful that she loves you despite the fact that you read TFM columns and wreak of Old Spice. Marry that Subaru.


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