This weekend we borrowed my father-in-law's super fancy Ford F-150 to transport some new furniture from the store to our house. This vehicle is what you might call a luxury truck. It's big, it's clean, it rides smooth as glass, and it comfortably carries its passengers at a cruising altitude well above most other traffic. Not to mention, it's got damn near all the bells and whistles. Most definitely not a work truck. And of course, its gas mileage is somewhere in the teens. It's the kind of vehicle I typically roll my eyes at. All weekend, I imagined that people who share my views on these things were in traffic glaring at me and the luxurious monstrosity I was navigating, branding me as an asshole, an enemy in the sensible vehicle wars, as a guy who needs a huge vehicle to compensate for any number of shortcomings. To which my imagined response was, "Fuck you hippie. I have a big ass truck."