I Want a Tank

(I shouldn't have to say it, but this is a piece of WHIMSY, please take it as such.)

I want to own a tank. A real, honest-to-God modern battle tank of the M1 Abrams variety. I want to park that fucker in my front yard; I want to operate it as my primary vehicle. Just imagine, if you will, the kind of freedom that would result from driving a lethal instrument of war around town.

No one would ever cut you off. No one would dare to carjack you (unless they also had a tank, but since we don’t live in fucking Serbia that’s not likely) and people would be REALLY NERVOUS about pitching you shit when you park funny. I mean, imagine the possibilities.

Myself, I’d blow up or run over vehicles that annoy me. Examples; “tricked out” mid-80s K-cars with spoilers and spinners would get shat out the back of my tank with extreme prejudice. Rich, snooty hippies driving Priuses; DONE. Pedestrians that step off the fucking curb without looking; SEE YA! Sleep-deprived, meth-addled truckers who aren’t paying attention; WAKE UP, BITCH! Even pulling into the drive-thru at Burger King would suddenly take on a whole new dimension. After all, at that point would you really NEED to wait in line?

Why, I’d even paint my tank Day-Glo green so no one could claim they didn’t see me coming. With, perhaps, a big shark’s mouth painted on the front and some fuzzy dice hanging off the cannon barrel. Maybe I’d even call up the folks at “Pimp my Ride” and see what they could do with it. It would be worth the look on their faces when they showed up.

Maybe if everyone drove tanks, people would have more respect for the rules of the road. I mean, picture it; if someone could touch off a 105mm cannon for offending them, you’d be more likely to be polite and keep your own garden. If pedestrians could get mowed down by machine gun fire, they wouldn’t be so eager to step out in front of you, causing you to slam on your brakes and get rear-ended by the asshole behind you.

Of course, I don’t really want EVERYone to drive a tank. Just me. I like the idea of being king of the fucking road, and having armor piercing cannon and .50 caliber machine guns at my disposal would definitely grant me monarchal status. Who HASN’T dreamed of possessing a rocket launcher or high-powered cannon for the moment when some trophy wife in her whale-like SUV does a felony-stop impersonation because she’s too busy yakking on her cell-phone to watch where she’s fucking going? I have. Who HASN’T wanted to simply run over the dickhead in the dual-wheeled truck who takes up double-digit parking spaces because he can’t wait to catch the fishing gear sale at Big Five? I have.

And don’t fucking lie to me, you have too.