The Results are Positive.

Just got my truck inspected, and it passed without so much as a single raised eyebrow. If you had never met my truck, you would be wondering why this would be such a feat? Well, that would be because you’d never met such a strange acquaintance. As my truck is most strange.

For the time being, I happen to be one of those assholes with more than one vehicle, amidst rapist gas prices and a strong argument that I might not need any vehicle whatsoever, beyond my sad vanity.

I represent that variety of asshole well, except that there’s no vanity involved. I’m selling the pretty one soon, and keeping the creeeeeeeky squeek-bucket that passed inspection today. I got it from my uncle, who had traded up on vehicles, and apparently had some trouble unloading this one. At first, I was almost touched by his offer to give the thing over, as a gift. After all, it does have value, does it not?

Sort of.

As soon as I get the a/c fixed, the windshield repaired (five cracks – FIVE), a second set of tires (had to get two just to feel safe driving it home), the transmission rebuilt and the differential replaced… I will have put just as much into the goddamn thing as it would have cost me to buy one, clean, from a stranger off a car lot. Except that I have to go through the motions.

He knew all of this on the front end, so I feel no remorse in sorta-scorning the “gift”.

When sitting still, the vehicle appears to be a work truck of some sort. One that might be used to pick up a half-dozen day-laborers to do lawn work or drywall installation. But upon closer inspection, the bed is not fucked up enough to give evidence toward that conclusion. No. Oh, no. To the trained eye, the little truck is an obvious victim of negligent truckicide. Drooped rear bumper, slanted front fascia, bald rear tires, a host of phrenological bumps and chips all down the sides… and the crackle-glass for a windshield, well, that’s just to say “I’m fuckin’ classy, so snap into a Slim Jim!” When the driver door is opened, it “drops” down an inch after it passes a certain point in its swinging radius. Just to keep you on your toes.

When in motion, it is not uncommon for people waiting on the curb for a crosswalk to take a few steps back as I idle nearby. Presumably, they fear that a fire may spontaneously erupt from beneath the hood. Or from the horrendous grinding sound that hums and tanks up from the rear differential. It sounds like someone is cutting lumber with a warped, jagged, circular saw. And when the clutch is engaged, a bevy of chirps flutters from under the hood, like a flock of parakeets, chattering a demand for me to keep it in neutral.

The truck itself is awesome. Profiling in it is equally awesome.

Driving it illegally made me paranoid. Driving it legally makes me proud to be a Texan.