Suck my Tailpipe, Canada.
Just me and my Silverado, Owning the Libs 12 MPG at a time…
Recently, my wife was sideswiped in my car while going to pick up my mother-in-law.
She’s okay, and I can’t tell you how happy I am that I didn’t have to go to jail that night.
The guy who hit her was driving a stolen BMW on a little joyride, blew a stop sign, whiffed a turn, barreled under a fence, swiped my wife and another driver, and then bailed in a nearby field.
Probably a foreigner.
The incident blew the airbags on my brand-new Civic Sport. It was a beautiful floor model with blacked-out insignias, wheels, wing mirrors, and a sweet pearl white paint job.
The insurance called her a total loss.
I was now staring down the barrel of the greatest decision of my life.
Saying “I Do”? Nah.
Naming my son? Nope.
Feeling content with the long and unique road my life has taken as I lie on my deathbed, my loving wife beside me? Fuck no.
I get to do my part to Keep America Great. I’m gonna Buy American.
I still hadn’t filed my taxes, but the globalists at TurboTax told me I owed $6,500. Let’s see how that holds up when my LLC buys a new “work truck”.
Let’s see my wife’s “work husband”, Chet, beat this one.
Yep. That’s the angle.
So, after the 15 seconds I spent making up my mind, I called the Chevy dealer and made an appointment to look at a Silverado. They were lovely people and skilled salesmen. I was carried away by the American-Made Aesthetic. The door chime was the mating call of a male bald eagle. Creedence Clearwater Revival played on the PA. Today, I was a Fortunate Son.
“Hey! Welcome in!” I heard across the cavernous monument to American capitalism.
We exchanged pleasantries, and I told him what I came in to do:
“I am here today to do my part, like Trump said, and get myself a couple tons of American blue-collar made go-fast! Let’s see that Silverado!”
Without missing a beat, he took me to see it.
A beautiful High Country, black gloss and shiny chrome that didn’t say “take me home, baby” as much as it screeched “Witness Me.”
“Let’s get you out for a test drive, put those American thoroughbreds under your right foot for a spell.”
The test drive was rad. The car wasn’t fast, at least not as you would think, but the massive engine and turbochargers screamed real good, and the black smoke I left in other shoppers’ faces sold it to me.
Will it fit in my garage? Doesn’t matter. The garage is already filled with unfinished 80% AR-15 lowers, mills, and presses. Wasn’t going to go in there anyways. This princess is going to park on the pavement, where she belongs.
My pretty, lifted, black and chrome pavement princess.
“Now, I have another appointment in an hour for a couple to see her. They’re in from the Bay Area, and looking for something big enough to transport their Labradoodle to his Ayurvedic Doggy Daycare”. The salesman’s eyes gleamed subtly as he spoke.
His schedule was empty. No such appointment existed.
Ok. I had to play it smart. Couldn’t show my hand too soon. I’d be damned if they would steal this beauty from me. He tried his best to sweeten the deal while I played coy and distant like my prom date back in 76.
I started, “well, it’s a fine machine, but you and I both know it won’t sell to eco-nuts from San Francisco. Make me a deal I can’t ignore.”
“I’ll throw in the Anti-Vegan Leather package and a copy of Tom McDonald’s unreleased mixtape.”
Now we’re talking.
“Alright, I’ve got $7,250 down and $8,450 per month for 36 months. Tell me we have a deal, and I’ll throw in a rear window vinyl of Pepe the Frog peeing on a donkey, like the Calvin and Hobbes ones”.
“Alright, Justin. Deal.”
Next thing I knew, I was in the back with finance, signing my afternoon away. A few paltry and uninformed strokes of the pen were all that separated me from my holy duty to Keep America Great.
A signed a piece of paper that said clearly on the top, “THERE IS NO COOLING OFF PERIOD”.
“Please sign here, and here. Standard customs forms.”
I still don’t know why I signed those. Nothing custom about the truck. It was all factory stock.
As I signed the papers, I engaged him in conversation: “A lot of people seem to believe that the tariffs coming are gonna hurt Americans and make fewer cars that cost a lot more.”
“That might be tr-”
“And those Pinkos are about to find the fuck out. Right Franklin? Ha!”
“Heh.. yes, sir, I think they will.”
“Tariffs keep America for Americans! I never considered an American car before. I couldn’t stomach the poor quality and high prices!”
“I am glad you chose to buy from us today, sir”.
“And I’m glad Obama bailed y’all out. Only good thing he’s done.”
Time passed, pens signed things, and copies were collated and filed.
“And that’s it! Here are your keys. Thanks for doing your part. I’ll take it from here.”
Those Mexican and Canadian schmucks were gonna pay for it now, wall or no wall. I did my job, and now I can rest easy.
As I left, keys to my riteous steed in hand, ready to light a fire under those namby-pamby librul’s asses, the finance guy chirped:
“And you came in at the right time, too. We are raising prices next Tuesday to align ourselves with the latest tariffs facing Canada and Mexico. This car would have been about 7-8K more if you didn’t come in today. Good thinking. A lot of the parts and labor are taken care of in Canada and Mexico, and that is about to get a LOT pricier to do.”
FUCK. Guess I’ll drive the Tesla to work.
FOR SALE: 2025 Chevy Silverado 1500 High Country, Long bed, Crew Cab
ODO: 156 miles
ONE OWNER
CLEAN TITLE
ASKING: 86,500, no low ballers, I know what I got. You can’t put a price on American-made steel.
GOBBLES