Nasty red fasty man

So there I am gliding graciaously down the freeway toward the Bay Bridge, intending in all facets of me to cross the span effaciously but no greater, when a bright red pickup truck speeds by.
Not in flow. Faster than equals. Evil yuppie redneck doing at tleast eighty miles an hour.

And I am jealous. Why, am I asking myself, why does this person of low morals have a car of more self-esteem than myself? Why I am driving aunt Priti's old station-wagon? It is a relic.

Shall not detail dissimilar paint jobs indicating multiplicity of bad driving or several previous ownerships. It has been, more or less, a family item these several years.

RED PICKUPS!

Must now re-examine the life well spent. Had I but gone into selling methamphetamine and other pleasurable illegal substances to the youthful wash-outs of middle class America, I too could be driving a brand new spanking vehicle, a blood red pickup truck with chrome spinners and a most lovely enamel job. He even has a booming box! I can still hear it.

Were it not for my low abiding character, I would speed up to enjoy the music.
The red red red of his splendiforous conveyance is still visible, leaving law abiding citizens such as my self in the East Bay dust. To the right, salt flats. To the left, industrial tureen.

Disappointed, I take last Oakland exit before bridge. All potential and expectant joys of day in sunshine of North Beach has now gone. I have lost my appetites. I shall not eat pizza today. Not any of it.

Sadly depressed and utterly downcast I return to Berkeley. Back to the land of vegetarians.
Bloody puritanical bullocks.