Bro trucks. Medium-duty hulking monoliths to excess and empowerment, spewing hydrocarbons and noise into the air and blinding drivers with their headlights all to the sound of ludicrous amounts of unused power being channeled through never-taken-offroad knobbly, noisy tires.

God dammit, I've found myself liking them. The reason? I drove one.

I recently drove a 2009-ish Ford F-250 Super Duty with a 4" lift kit and 4" exhaust, and it was one of the most satisfying drives from one suburb to another I've ever had. For one, you don't drive a huge truck like this. You press a pedal and 600ft-lb of torque and 300hp rotates the earth underneath you, slightly changing the orbit of our blue marble and lengthening the night so you can party longer. And you're up *high*. So high in fact you're not just looking down at that guy in his Civic, you TOWER over them. And even people in lesser trucks (S10s, Rangers, etc.) shy away at the sun-blocking bulk of your four tons of freedom and hamburger-induced heart attacks.

And then there's the sound.

Diesels sound something like a symphony of T-rexes roaring while having sex with a jet engine while Thor smites terrorists with red white and blue lightning, an effect that is turned up to 11 if you ever find a ramp-like railroad crossing in the middle of nowhere and decide to take it at 55, with a few brief moments to consider just how much mass is hanging in the air before *thunk*ing back down to terra firma and creating a small crater in the road.


I quite like these trucks, even as on-road tarmac-hugging land whales.