My truck hauls ass. It hauls so much ass that sometimes I literally cannot believe how much ass it hauls. Sometimes, while I’m hauling ass, I just take a deep breath and make sure I’m not dreaming. And frankly, I believe that as much ass as it hauls currently, if put to the test, it could haul exponentially more ass.

My truck doesn’t transport ass or tote ass or schlepp ass or cart ass. It hauls ass. Lots of it. It could haul all the ass in the entire world if given the opportunity. It has no maximum capacity of ass it can haul. When I’m talking truck and people talk about their trucks’ maximum payloads and or carrying capacity and then ask me how much ass my truck hauls I say succinctly, “Infinity ass.”

Which is good because there is so much ass to haul. I’ve learned there are a few things upon which you can always rely: food spillage when you’re wearing white; good hair days happening when you least expect them; your kids vomiting when you don’t have a towel; and there always being ass that needs to get hauled somewhere.

Some trucks haul logs and some trucks haul thingamabobs and some trucks, because they are equipped with refrigerating equipment, haul frozen foods or cans of beer or crates of Ben & Jerry’s. Some trucks even haul other trucks. You know how that cabbage you just bought at the grocery store got in the produce section? A cabbage hauling truck. You know what my truck hauls? Ass.

I am the only one in my sphere of influence who has a truck that hauls ass. As such, my friends frequently call me and ask me to haul some ass for them. I’m always eager to help them haul ass. I’ll ask them, “This really is of no consequence because my truck can haul so much ass, but how much ass do you have to haul?” Sometimes they say, “I just have an armoire.” Or “I need to take my parents’ old dryer to the dump.” And I have to say politely, “Sorry, I thought I made this clear before, but by my truck hauls ass and only ass.” But other times they’ll say, “I have five tons of ass that needs hauling. Do you think your truck can handle it?”

In such cases, I just chuckle and say, “Yeah. My truck hauls ass. All the ass.” Then, no matter where they are—a flea market, state penitentiary, donkey farm, Key West night club, wildlife preserve in Africa—I drive my truck there and we haul some ass.

My truck hauls only ass, but it hauls all kinds of ass. Reptile ass, amphibian ass, human ass, cat ass, hamster ass, insect ass, donkey ass (that’s double ass), and one time it even hauled dinosaur ass. That was unexpected, but you never know what you’re going to get in the ass hauling business.

My truck also hauls ass anywhere and everywhere. I’ve hauled ass on major highways and on country roads. I’ve hauled ass in the Target parking lot and at my kids’ school’s drop-off lane. Sure, the Target moms and school teachers complain sometimes, but I’m like, “Sorry folks. There’s ass in this world that needs hauling and my truck is the truck that hauls it.”

Everywhere I go my truck is hauling ass. I’ve hauled ass over the Golden Gate bridge and I’ve hauled ass on the Blue Ridge Parkway and I’ve hauled ass on Route 66 and I have even hauled ass on Broadway on my way to see Hamilton. Once I was at the toll plaza on the Garden State Parkway and the toll booth collector looked at my truck and said, “Your truck hauls ass,” and give me a thumbs up. I said, “Thanks for noticing. Yes, my truck contains copious amounts of ass and it is hauling it.”

Everyone who rides in my truck agrees it hauls ass. We will be hauling ass down the road or the highway or outside of Ikea, and I’ll turn down the radio and subtly say, “This truck really hauls ass doesn’t it?” and never—not ever—has anyone disagreed with that assessment. They’re always like, “Yeah, it sure does. But isn’t it a bit weird to haul ass and nothing else?” And I’m like, “Do people ever complain about egg beaters only beating eggs? Or horse whisperers only whispering horses?

Once I was hauling ass and came down a hill with a full load of ass and rounded a curve doing somewhere close to 60 miles per hour. That might not sound fast, but it is when you’re hauling ass. Dead ahead, about 100 yards in front of me was a narrow bridge and sitting in the middle of the bridge were several people in lawn chairs with coolers scattered around and fishing lines tossed over the side. I laid on the horn and hit the brakes and stopped about 15 feet from the lawn chairs. The people had already shit their pants and were standing next to the bridge railing, terrified. But, know what they said after that near-death experience?

You guessed it. “Your truck hauls ass.”

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