Dude in a Truck

I live in an expanding area known collectively as Southern Utah, which is basically a couple of cities in the south west corner of the state. My own town is a smallish city surrounded by little cities. All you need to do is cross the street and tada! You’re in a new city, you know, technically.

The redneck community here is huge; mostly because they’re protected by the predominant religious group (and vice versa). I think they’re called Mormons or something.

One of the consequences of this fine social arrangement--big trucks everywhere. I don’t mean fun, sporty off-road trucks, I mean in order to get a truck bigger than the ones you see all around town, you would have take a class and get your drivers license updated. These trucks guzzle the diesel fuel and have hoods that are eye level and wheels small children can hide behind without ducking.

“What’s the big deal, Bastard? Nothing wrong with a truck, right?”
To which I respond, “SHUT UP! QUIT QUESTIONING ME AT EVERY TURN!”

But, after the rage fades back from my red filled vision, I’d help you back up, lend you a handkerchief for your freshly bloodied nose and point out it’s one thing to have a lifestyle that demands you have a vehicle of that sort—boats to get to the lake, ATV’s to transport, large quantities of uncut coke to smuggle, etc—but it’s another thing entirely to have a truck just for truck’s sake.

Most of these guys, though, they don’t have that kind of lifestyle. These guys don’t even understand why everyone is forever asking for them to help people move—you’d probably scratch the paint!

We call them “Dudes in a truck,” (to be said like you were Samuel L. Jackson talking about Snakes on a muffuggin’ Plane) and we make fun of their penis size--clearly they're huge. They really are everywhere.

You can hear these diesel fueled beasts humming at every red light. One such evening found me first in line at a red light, and to my right at the line with me was a Dude in a Truck.

I was driving my Caddy—the ’88 Eldorado kind, and I was toying with the idea of provoking the Dude. All it would take to utilize the eight cylinders under my hood was a heavy foot on accelerate once the light turned. Dudes in Trucks can not tolerate lesser vehicles taking on airs or acting better in any way shape or form.

I decided there was no point to it. I take limited enjoyment in provoking the reaction I postulated would occur, but Dudes in a Truck aren’t that hard to predict, so really, it’s not that challenging kind of fun, so I dismissed the idea.

Until I looked in my rear view and saw the telltale silloette of hood lights atop of a cop car two cars behind me.

The light turned and I hit the gas. I got up to the legal speed limit—35mph, before I was even across the intersection. The Dude took notice and responded in kind. After I got up to speed though, I eased off the accelerator and the Dude and his Truck flew by me, his roaring diesel engine all but shouting “OUT OF THE WAY, ME AND MY HUGE COCK HAVE THREE PARKING SPOTS TO GO PARK IN!”

Seconds later the cop bolted past me, lights flashing.

I laughed the whole way home. It took a few minutes to compose myself and explain my split side to Mrs. Bastard. Granted, the cop who pulled The Dude in a Truck over was probably his second cousin or a church mate of some kind. But even if he didn’t get a ticket—it feels like a victory, and that’s how I score it.