My new vehicle

I'm a badass and every fiber of my existence screams it at the top of its proverbial lungs to the point of laryngitis. Anyone stupid enough to step up and test my resolve will quickly have the opportunity to get a sample of my world famous knuckle sandwich, hold the mayo...you got what I'm saying there, hoss? Of course it does not stop there. Everything that belongs to me must follow equally in suit. If there is a nanofraction in my mind about the badassity of one of my possessions, I will either: A) Flush it down the toilet B) Pour acid on it until it melts down to a reasonable size and then flush it down the toilet or C) Take it out into the middle of the street and beat it until it cries. Yes, I am that serious about maintaining the integrity of my lifestyle choice.







That is why when the decision arose about what type of vehicle I would chose to represent my hardcore to the max image, the choice was an easy one. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to my new ride, "Red Sonja".


























My next door neighbor, Hank, was always bragging about his Hummer and about how it always made my wife's Honda Civic look like a toy. Who's driving the toy now, Hank?














I had to make a few modifications just in case Hank decides to get him one of these beauties so I will remain the undisputed king of the block. First off, I had to switch over the ornaments I had on my old Ford Explorer (It's embarrassing to admit I once drove a truck so damn tiny). Those of you that know me know that I have a few trademark stickers that must be placed in the rear window of any vehicle graced with my ownership. My absolute favorite is one of Calvin peeing on Calvin peeing on Calvin peeing on a Ford. This is my big "fuck you" to all the Ford hater haters out there. I can't stand them. The next sticker says Nizzo Fizzear, which is how Snoop Dogg says "no fear". That's pretty much how my life rolls and I want everyone to know that in case they are ignorant enough to step to me. The last sticker I have is "Badass boys have badass toys". Even though that last one is a bit redundant in my opinion, it is still required to complete the package.

But these things are just stickers, you say. Surely there must be more to your persona than these menial trivalities. Rest assured, loyal followers, the stickers are only the icing on the cake. No large truck would be complete without loudly stating the gender of the one driving. That's where the truck nuts come in. Make no mistake, though, they couldn't be just any color truck nuts for someone who has nuts of solid steel like me. Nothing says "I'm a true man" like a pair of these bad boys.







Normally old red here would get 7 miles to the gallon but that was before I made my other pièce de résistance addition. To show that I don't fall for that commie liberal agenda about global warming and oil being a natural resource of limited supply, I filled the truck bed with a thick layer of solid concrete. After all, I'm an insurance agent and not a damn contractor. Besides, now I won't have any of my fool neighbors wanting me to help them move. So what if it only gets four miles to the gallon now? Respect does not come cheap.

Speaking of respect, this last Sunday I had to get into it with this son of a bitch who cut me off in his pussy ass little Toyota Prius. I was on my way to church but I decided to follow his ass down the road to give him a piece of my mind. When I pulled up next to him at the next stop light I rolled down my window and shouted down at him. "Why don't you watch where you're going, asshole?!!"

He replied to me "Your vehicle only has the stock acceleration ability to go zero to sixty in 14.4 seconds and yours looks like it could barely make it in 30 seconds, I took my chances. Since you didn't even catch up to me until I had to stop at this red light, it looks like my gamble paid off."

Before I could even formulate a response, the light turned green and he sped away. I pulled into the next side street, parked by the curb and did something I hadn't done since I was twelve. I cried. Now, don't you get me wrong here. It wasn't because that little jerk off got the last word on me. That was just the straw that broke the mules back. The real reason I was crying is because just last week my grandmother was killed in a tornado that ripped through The Villages in North Central Florida. It struck in the middle of the night so she didn't even know what hit her.

After a few minutes I just got plain angry at myself. How could I have let myself cry like that? To make it up to myself, I found a few teenagers walking down the street, jumped out of my truck and punched both of them in the face. That made me feel a lot better. I even made it to church on time.