This is what happens when little boys grow up. Or, rather, little boys who spend their little boyhood pushing around toy tanks and pick ups, growling vroom vroom in their mock-assertive little boy voices, while all around them little girls patiently wonder why the little boys couldn't for once put down the trucks so everyone could go play shopping. Or doctor.
Some of us big girls are still wondering.
That's S.B.'s beloved Dodge Ram pick up truck. Nicknamed, Big Red. In the ten years he's owned it, he's lifted it twice. While I cannot pretend to understand exactly what that means, I think it basically has something to do with attaching and/or welding some kind of doohicky thingamajig to the vehicle's suspension, then outfitting it with some waaaaaay big tires, thereby raising the vehicle off the ground to such an extent that the resulting driving experience is like trying to maneuver a washing machine on training wheels.
Regardless, you should hear the compliments S.B. gets on his truck. Boys, er, men who would otherwise be rendered mute as door knobs at the prospect of having to compliment a woman on her new shoes or haircut suddenly wax near Shakespearean when in the presence of Big Red.
I know for a fact that if S.B. were made King of the Universe tomorrow his first proclamation would be to lift every single vehicle in existence. Not even Hondas or Vespas would escape. As it stands now, the man can't look at an automobile without calculating its maximum tire size or how high he could hoist it up. A couple times over the years he has even suggested we lift my vehicle. Hell, he would have lifted the Corvette if we'd had it long enough. Thankfully, the dogs ate it.
Like a starlet working a Botox addiction, S.B. just keeps working on Big Red. Until he gets it right. Readers, I give you, courtesy an entire business devoted exclusively to just this kind of thing, S.B.'s latest plans for Big Red. He figures it should all be finalized sometime mid summer: