My Truck is Bigger Than Your Cock
Now, in my capacity as Senior Napkin Folder at an events management company, I am privy to the executive speeches prepared for the brass of several major automotive concerns. The message over the last six months has been amazingly consistent between them: Jesus Fuck we'll all doooooooomed!
In my decade of working on internal events of the industry, I have never seen such a panic. The oil crises of the 1970s and 1980s look like wee tiny blips compared to what they're currently up against -- across the board negative growth over the industry litmus-test of Memorial Day Weekend for the first time in half a century, a cliff-like one-fifth reduction in sales over a single quarter, unprecedented since the Great Depression...and projections for worse to come.
Among the hardest hit is General Motors. I have never owned a General Motors vehicle, and have seldom if ever had occasion to drive one until Mohit saddled me with God's Own Truck, the GMC 2008 Sierra.
After driving it for a week, I can now chime in: indeed, General Motors is dooooomed.
It's not about poor performance -- the Sierra has so much internal combustion muscle that it feels like driving a sedan. It's about the fact that many of my rural neighbours drive such vehicles, and what they are attracted to in the vehicle is crazy.
Basically, it's a giant, glossy, motorized penis substitute. It's a one-ton mobile dildo.
If you lack personal confidence or a healthy sense of self-esteem, you've got to get your ass one of these. It's like walking around with a gun in your hand. It's your own personal mountain, a roaring, speeding iceberg of metal whose winking chrome dazzles the eyes and hearts of lesser beings in their tiny, humble pussymobiles. You look down on everyone. You're at a comfortable level to exchange friendly nods with tanker truck drivers and cement mixer drivers, to deign to wave down to the bus driver, to spit on the roof of the tallest mere SUV...
The engine is throaty and unrepentent. It's geared to thrust into overdrive at he drop of a hat, reminding you on every hill that the Sierra would obligingly tow a medium-sized vocational college behind it without breaking a sweat.
It is as wide as a lane. The grille is two storeys high. In its shadow the temperature drops.
Suddenly, I get respect from other drivers in my community -- I'm given room to change lanes, the passing lane is obligingly vacated ahead of me, I'm waved through to turn. Where normally the pick-ups in my neighbourhood vie to quash my ambitions as the driver of a butter-yellow sub-compact, with the glistening silver steed of the Sierra humming under my nuts I'm treated like the King of Spain.
When I brought it home my wife thought I was someone else, and evaluated me as some strange but compellingly manly cutie. Then she recognized me. "Holy shit!" she said later. "I know it's an utterly ridiculous vehicle, but, honestly -- I'm kind of turned on right now."
It's a machine high that pumps right into your blood -- you're a juggernaut of masculinity, a rolling titan of power and poise. It's a drug.
And, like the giant pick-ups in my neighbours' driveways, the tail is immaculate and unscratched -- never used for something so sullying as hauling shit around. (In fact, many of my neighbours go so far as to purchase aftermarket trunks to install in their tail beds, in order to convert the trucks into something more practical.) Though equipped for heavy duty, these are not work machines -- they're sources of artificial self-esteem.
Now I understand better why the demographic in my area can't be persuaded to drive saner vehicles. They make make lip-noise about the global scientific conspiracy to fool us all into thinking the world is changing, but it's just a distraction. The real objection is that if they were forced to drive a smaller, more reasonable car they would be left without the inflated feeling of potency granted by riding a monster.
"Hybrids are gay," I've been told. Now I understand why. It isn't that there's something inherently wrong with fuel efficiency, it's that it offers little else besides. A car is not just a car. It's an emblem.
GMC makes trucks for cowboys, or for men who want to feel like cowboys, even if the truck itself is the only cowboy thing about them. How does General Motors have a hope in Hull of converting that market to desire something sustainable?
The Sierra is the first modern vehicle I have ever seen that features no readout for fuel consumption statistics. It also has no tripmeter to help you measure how far you get on a tank. The automatic and highly robotic transmission offers no alternative mode for economy. It is as if the entire subject of efficiency is forbidden -- banished from awareness, all clues erased except the math you do at the pump.
(For the record, the GMC 2008 Sierra gets about 12 miles per dinosaur. Unless you're driving uphill. Then you might need to top it off with a primordial forest or two worth of organic sludge.)
The air conditioning comes on automatically.
On my way in to work this morning I mowed down a flock of birds. That's right -- a fucking flock. You know how sometimes an airborne flock might stray into the road, the stupidest birds on the trailing edge getting knicked by speeding traffic? Well, in this case my front profile is sufficiently broad that the entire squadron fell into my grille with a sextuplet string of thumps. Even those who saw me coming were too slow to escape the undertow of air raging around my entirely unaerodynamic hugeness. Another notch in the belt marking the unending struggle of man versus nature. Victory!
The king cab is roomy enough for comfortable screwing. The windows are tinted, too. If you sleep over, you could have breakfast for six around the massive centre console surface.
It's a house.
I can't wait until my butter-yellow sub-compact is fixed. I can't afford to keep pumping money into this behemoth, and I don't want my testicles to get addicted to feeling so large. Plus, the air up here is giving me nosebleeds.
On my way home I think I'll run over some deer.
In my decade of working on internal events of the industry, I have never seen such a panic. The oil crises of the 1970s and 1980s look like wee tiny blips compared to what they're currently up against -- across the board negative growth over the industry litmus-test of Memorial Day Weekend for the first time in half a century, a cliff-like one-fifth reduction in sales over a single quarter, unprecedented since the Great Depression...and projections for worse to come.
Among the hardest hit is General Motors. I have never owned a General Motors vehicle, and have seldom if ever had occasion to drive one until Mohit saddled me with God's Own Truck, the GMC 2008 Sierra.
After driving it for a week, I can now chime in: indeed, General Motors is dooooomed.
It's not about poor performance -- the Sierra has so much internal combustion muscle that it feels like driving a sedan. It's about the fact that many of my rural neighbours drive such vehicles, and what they are attracted to in the vehicle is crazy.
Basically, it's a giant, glossy, motorized penis substitute. It's a one-ton mobile dildo.
If you lack personal confidence or a healthy sense of self-esteem, you've got to get your ass one of these. It's like walking around with a gun in your hand. It's your own personal mountain, a roaring, speeding iceberg of metal whose winking chrome dazzles the eyes and hearts of lesser beings in their tiny, humble pussymobiles. You look down on everyone. You're at a comfortable level to exchange friendly nods with tanker truck drivers and cement mixer drivers, to deign to wave down to the bus driver, to spit on the roof of the tallest mere SUV...
The engine is throaty and unrepentent. It's geared to thrust into overdrive at he drop of a hat, reminding you on every hill that the Sierra would obligingly tow a medium-sized vocational college behind it without breaking a sweat.
It is as wide as a lane. The grille is two storeys high. In its shadow the temperature drops.
Suddenly, I get respect from other drivers in my community -- I'm given room to change lanes, the passing lane is obligingly vacated ahead of me, I'm waved through to turn. Where normally the pick-ups in my neighbourhood vie to quash my ambitions as the driver of a butter-yellow sub-compact, with the glistening silver steed of the Sierra humming under my nuts I'm treated like the King of Spain.
When I brought it home my wife thought I was someone else, and evaluated me as some strange but compellingly manly cutie. Then she recognized me. "Holy shit!" she said later. "I know it's an utterly ridiculous vehicle, but, honestly -- I'm kind of turned on right now."
It's a machine high that pumps right into your blood -- you're a juggernaut of masculinity, a rolling titan of power and poise. It's a drug.
And, like the giant pick-ups in my neighbours' driveways, the tail is immaculate and unscratched -- never used for something so sullying as hauling shit around. (In fact, many of my neighbours go so far as to purchase aftermarket trunks to install in their tail beds, in order to convert the trucks into something more practical.) Though equipped for heavy duty, these are not work machines -- they're sources of artificial self-esteem.
Now I understand better why the demographic in my area can't be persuaded to drive saner vehicles. They make make lip-noise about the global scientific conspiracy to fool us all into thinking the world is changing, but it's just a distraction. The real objection is that if they were forced to drive a smaller, more reasonable car they would be left without the inflated feeling of potency granted by riding a monster.
"Hybrids are gay," I've been told. Now I understand why. It isn't that there's something inherently wrong with fuel efficiency, it's that it offers little else besides. A car is not just a car. It's an emblem.
GMC makes trucks for cowboys, or for men who want to feel like cowboys, even if the truck itself is the only cowboy thing about them. How does General Motors have a hope in Hull of converting that market to desire something sustainable?
The Sierra is the first modern vehicle I have ever seen that features no readout for fuel consumption statistics. It also has no tripmeter to help you measure how far you get on a tank. The automatic and highly robotic transmission offers no alternative mode for economy. It is as if the entire subject of efficiency is forbidden -- banished from awareness, all clues erased except the math you do at the pump.
(For the record, the GMC 2008 Sierra gets about 12 miles per dinosaur. Unless you're driving uphill. Then you might need to top it off with a primordial forest or two worth of organic sludge.)
The air conditioning comes on automatically.
On my way in to work this morning I mowed down a flock of birds. That's right -- a fucking flock. You know how sometimes an airborne flock might stray into the road, the stupidest birds on the trailing edge getting knicked by speeding traffic? Well, in this case my front profile is sufficiently broad that the entire squadron fell into my grille with a sextuplet string of thumps. Even those who saw me coming were too slow to escape the undertow of air raging around my entirely unaerodynamic hugeness. Another notch in the belt marking the unending struggle of man versus nature. Victory!
The king cab is roomy enough for comfortable screwing. The windows are tinted, too. If you sleep over, you could have breakfast for six around the massive centre console surface.
It's a house.
I can't wait until my butter-yellow sub-compact is fixed. I can't afford to keep pumping money into this behemoth, and I don't want my testicles to get addicted to feeling so large. Plus, the air up here is giving me nosebleeds.
On my way home I think I'll run over some deer.
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