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I had six cars in front of me the other day. Not one of them moving. And I was running out of time. So...I just ran right over them.
Up their trunks, over their roofs and down their hoods. Smooshed them. Left them flatter than Kate Moss holding a three-day-old beer.
Enjoyed it so much I turned around and did it again, cackling like Vincent Price.
Was I jailed for that? Arrested? Even tsk-tsked? No. I was praised, slapped on the back and offered a pinch of Copenhagen.
That's because I was not on the street. I was in an arena. And I wasn't driving my car. I was driving a five-ton, 1,400-horsepower, 10-foot-tall, eardrum-ruining, groin-tingling Big-foot, the mother of all monster trucks.
You may think only those married to their cousins feel this way, but I'm a monster fan of monster trucks. I own Bigfoot videos, including ones that show a Bigfoot purposely crashing through a Winnebago, a Bigfoot crushing an entire new-car showroom, two Bigfoots pulling a 1979 Chrysler K-car from each end until it rips in half. Honesty, can you have more fun without using some form of lard?
Before a recent monster-truck show, I got a shot at crushing cars with one of the five Bigfoots competing around the country. My instructor was the immortal Bigfoot driver Dan Runte—a small man with monster marbles, a man who once jumped a Bigfoot over a 727. He missed the plane by a good 94 feet, which is better than some airline pilots have done.
Dan showed me the 66-inch-tall tires (they're two inches taller than Ian Woosnam!), the plexiglass floor (you can see what you're crushing!) and, in case anything went wrong, the remote engine kill switch that he would hold at the ready while I drove ("works up to three quarters of a mile!" Dan said proudly).
As a man with two teenage sons, I can see how such a device could come in very handy.
Older teenage son: All right, you gun it while I lie on the roof of the car firing bottle rockets outta my butt!