Yeah, I know you.

I just met you and I already know the kind of douchemaster you are. I don't even have to look outside to know you drive a Red Truck. You ugly f**k.

What was it that let me on? Sh*t, man, do I have to tell you? Is it not obvious?

The "Built Ford Tough" tattoo? No, I knew way before I saw that. And why the f**k did you make me see that? Next time don't just assume that everyone wants to see your white pimply ass before you drop your faded black jeans.

And it wasn't your farmer's tan either. My girlfriend has one of those, because she likes to garden.

I can't believe I'm talking to a fucker who drives a Red Truck – why would I waste my time? F**k. You know, I hate Red Truckers, I hate them like a fat kid hates the three hours between lunch and dinner. I hate them because I drive a minivan and you fuckers always think it'd be fun to pass me going ninety, on the right. Yeah, you're cool – I admit it, passing someone on the right is f**king cool as f**k. I mean seriously. When I drive a Red Truck, I do it all the f**king time. And you know what, I jerk off while I'm doing it. Because I'm a jerkoff when I'm driving a Red Truck. Only, I'm never a jerkoff because I never drive a Red Truck. F**kers.

Why did you even buy that color of truck, if you were going to buy a truck? I mean, if you're any sort of real man, you're going to buy a black f**king truck. No, you said, let's get a truck the color of passion, of blood, of the lipstick ring your wife leaves around the cocks of all your friends (What, you didn't know? If you'd known, would you still have bought the Red Truck? Yes? Then I don't feel bad).

No, if you really want to know how I know, just ask the Nickelback song you have playing on your iPod mini. Nickelback? Really. If you're going to be a Red Trucker, at least be original in your choice of tunage. Ask the one earring you have, or the cowboy-boots-turned-tennis-shoes that you deliberately walk through the mud in. Ask your flannel shirt, or your popped collar. Ask the brown cigarettes you smoke, only you call them "cigarellos" as if they aren't just Kools that are brown. Ask your Prada cowboy hat. Ask your Fossil watch, you sonofabitch. Ask the way you refer to middle-easterners as "F**king Ay-Rabs." Ask your two inch dick, which is the reason you bought a Red Truck in the first place – and, what a coincidence – the same reason your wife likes the taste of foreign meat.

I mean sh*t, I don't even have to look outside and I can probably tell you what kind of stickers and truck decorations you have on your Red Truck. How about a giant NO FEAR sticker plastered on your back window? Really? I'm good. Rubber testacles that you can hang on your trailer hitch? Check. Wow.

Oh man, I can't even go on anymore. I'm going to puke. Red Trucks make me homicidally agitated and wetly nauseous. Please, please go. Get out.

Rev your engine as you leave, let us all hear what your engine sounds like with the muffler gone. Squeal out of the parking lot, and run over some little children. Pass someone on the right. Gawk at a girl driver and make lewd masturbation gestures. I don't care anymore. Just get out before I…