I Like Big Trucks and I Cannot Lie

Newsletter 2024-03-1

I can’t parallel park. It’s a serious character flaw. If I see a horizontal space between two other vehicles, I say, “Not today, Satan,” and park somewhere else. It doesn’t help that I drive a minivan, which is about as mini as a mini pig. Minivans today have the same dimensions as full-size vans from ages past, back when Ford Econolines and woolly mammoths roamed the earth. I parallel park in front of my own house nearly every day, but only if there are two open spots in a row so I can pull in without endangering myself or the public at large. Otherwise, I park on the concrete slab behind the house, forcing me to walk extra steps to get inside, the ultimate punishment for my shortcomings as a driver and a human being. Other guys don’t seem to have that problem. I’m now deep in the throes of yet another home renovation, and I’ve become utterly dependent on men with trucks. Not pick-up trucks, which my minivan completely surpasses. My mom-mobile can haul stone pavers and oversized taxidermy in tuxedos better than any F150 ever could. I’m referring more to industrial scale vehicles that haul single loads to finish entire projects. In the past week, I’ve seen dudes squeeze semis through narrow spaces where I wouldn’t take a bicycle. Men with trucks make the world go round and keep my house from falling apart. I thank them for their service.

The driver of the first big truck to visit my house this week nearly electrocuted himself.