There’s a particular kind of guy in America who looks at a perfectly functional pickup truck and thinks, You know what this needs? Another eighteen inches between me and the ground.
And so begins the transformation. The suspension gets lifted. The tires become the size of industrial washing machines. The exhaust is modified to sound like an angry rhinoceros having a medical emergency. Somewhere along the way, a $65,000 vehicle becomes an $85,000 declaration that its owner is not to be fucked with.
Which is interesting, because he’s usually just driving to Chipotle.
Look, I understand wanting a nice truck. Trucks are useful. They haul things. They tow things. They can take you places a Honda Civic can’t. But the guy with a six-inch lift and tires that cost more than my refrigerator isn’t hauling lumber. He’s hauling himself, a gas station energy drink, and an unresolved need to be noticed.
And the thing is, we notice.
It’s impossible not to when your headlights are positioned at the exact height of everyone else’s rearview mirror. Or when you take up two parking spaces because apparently the laws of geometry are another form of government oppression.
Of course, we’re supposed to make the obvious joke about what he’s compensating for. But I think that’s lazy. The truth is probably more complicated and, frankly, more depressing.
Somewhere along the line, a certain segment of American men decided that being physically imposing was the same thing as being important. That if you couldn’t command respect through your personality, your accomplishments, or the way you treated people, you could at least purchase enough ground clearance to simulate it.
And maybe that’s the saddest part.
Because underneath all that steel, rubber, and aggressive aftermarket lighting is just a guy who wants to feel like a big deal.
He’s just chosen to express it through a vehicle that requires a fucking stepladder to get into.
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