It could just be a girl thing, but I’ve never really understood this relationship between the suburban man and his truck. OK sure, who doesn’t find himself in occasional need to haul a mess of something that either a) doesn’t fit or b) smells too bad to chauffeur about on the velour upholstery of your daily driver.
That’s why you always have a friend with a truck, people.
But who is that friend? Right. That would be us. And we’re what some might consider truck rich. We have not merely one Hauler of Messy Crap lounging in our driveway, but oh no indeed, we bought it a friend.
This auxiliary vehicle is a truck with more dents than class, and if it were a person, it would be sporting a few missing front teeth. The Husband calls it the “Work Horse.” However, I’ve christened it “The Sh** Truck that’s always in my flippin’ way when I want turn my car around in the driveway.”
Why, you ask, do we need a second truck? So glad you brought that up.
What we have here is a paradoxical situation tooling about town on four wheels. See, one needs a truck to transport mulch, car engines, and the like. But you don’t want to muss up the Good Truck with these drippy goods, let along actually risk an unsightly scrape. And that, Dear Wife, is why we have the auxiliary sh** truck.
But why, Husband, do we even need the Good Truck then? When we could instead tour about in the comfort of a sedan with its floating-on-a-cloud shocks?
Because, of course, we need a truck to haul things.
But that’s why … oh, never mind. I can’t push the issue or I could find myself defending the how-many-dogs-can-I-have-and-still-be-married conversation again.
I’ll tell you one good thing about the sh** truck, though. No, really. Give me just a minute. I’m sure there’s something.
Oh I know! It runs good, so there’s that. And when the Husband asks me to ride shotgun to drop the yard waste off at the recycling center, I’m all whatever, but first let’s hit the drive-thru and pick up some PBR and carton of Marlboro’s.
He agrees, but only if I wear my daisy dukes.
Kidding, of course. I don’t smoke. Anyway this whole monologue came to mind when I snapped this photo of Micron. He’s sporting a Cabela’s cap like it was made just for him.
You know those Subaru commercials with the dog family? Yeah? OK, so lower your standards a few notches. Imagine Micron with one paw on the steering wheel of a beat up half-ton truck, and with his head out the truck window, wolf-whistling at cute passersby.
Because we are so easily entertained, honestly it doesn’t take much, we convinced Holly to see what she could do with the look. Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised, what with the age difference and all.
Holly’s gone all dogsta with it.
It’s at this point, our old fella, Jager, decides to see what all the frivolity is about. “Do you think you can keep it down out here? Some of us work nights, you know.” By working nights, of course he means alert barking for no reason at 2:00 am.
Being the senior member of Sword House, nothing must happen without either his consent or participation. He wants to wear the hat.
Unfortunately for his pointy noggin, the thing won’t stay put. And yet, this resolution to the problem at head makes him ridiculously happy.
He’s calling shotgun for the next truck trip. Fine, but he’s not wearing the daisy dukes. He doesn’t have the legs for it.