For several months I have been feeling puny. For those who may not understand the quasi-medical term puny, it is a condition that can be described as the feeling of having no fuel in the tank when you step on the gas pedal of life. It is not as bothersome as a railroad spike impaled your forehead, but it’s close.
For a while I though it related to my ever advancing age. But there are lots of other people my age, and even more so, who don’t appeared to be afflicted as I am. Someone told me to take garlic pills, I did but I didn’t feel any better; I didn’t have any trouble with vampires though. I considered exercise but the mere thought of it wore me out. I had just about resigned myself to a life of listless, lethargy when suddenly I figured out what was wrong.
A friend of mine was telling me about how another friend of ours had traded in his pickup truck for a mini-van. Right away I realized friend number two had made a mistake. A man swapping his truck for a soccer-mom car is not only asking for trouble, he is inviting it in the front door for milk and cookies.
You see it is a true, but a mostly unknown fact, that the testosterone levels of most men automatically decrease by at least 50 percent when they go from driving a pickup to just about anything else, save maybe a Kenworth or a 1968 Dodge Super Bee.
And that is what I had done. Last year I swapped my completely unreliable Chevrolet pickup truck for a start everyday Toyota Camry and lost my manhood.
The Camry is a fine car as far as it goes. It gets good mileage, it handles OK, the AC and the heat work and I have not found any surprise puddles of liquid under in the driveway - none of which I could say about my truck.
But reliability and mileage aren’t what they are cracked up to be when your robustness is at stake. I might as well be driving a Mini Cooper.
So I’ve been looking for a truck but what I want is hard to find on a car lot. I don’t need a something like one of the sleek and shiny like the ones for sale down on Abercorn Street. I need a junker, something like Fred Sanford drove, or the 1955 International with the Chevrolet engine and transmission I had years ago.
At my age the need for speed is way passed. Style and looks aren’t important to me anymore; most people can see that just by looking at my hairstyle and wardrobe selection. I need something to putt around in and haul stuff home from the Home Deposit. I need to be able to grind gears, smell exhaust fumes and open the hood and see parts I understand the function of.
I have spotted a couple of potentials but the guys who owned them were way too proud of their rust buckets for my budget. So I am asking for help. Maybe you’ve got one parked in your driveway, your backyard, your field or barn. It’s just sitting there. You’ve been thinking about doing something with it, but you know you never will.
If that is the case, all I am asking is that you think of me as a possible worthy cause and consider giving me a call.
You might have just what the doctor ordered. We might make a deal that could be good for both of us – you get rid something that is just taking up space and some folding money in your pocket, and I get back in the saddle again.
I can see it now, it would be great.
I’d put an “I Might be Slow but I Am Ahead of You” sticker on the bumper. I would let my dog ride around with me, toot the horn (if it works), spool the window down and wave at people. I’d even pull over and let people pass if I was going too slow. I’d cruise into Hardees playing “Why Can’t We Be Friends” on the stereo. People would smile just for seeing me.
It could be good for the whole county.