Pickup Truck Funny Quotes

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We’re walking to our cars when Gabe says, “Hey, Lara Jean, did you know that if you say your name really fast, it sounds like Large? Try it! LaraJean.” Dutifully I repeat, “LaraJean. Larjean. Largy. Actually I think it sounds more like Largy, not Large.” Gabe nods to himself and announces, “I’m going to start calling you Large. You’re so little it’s funny. Right? Like those big guys who go by the name Tiny?” I shrug. “Sure.” Gabe turns to Darrell. “She’s so little she could be our mascot.” “Hey, I’m not that small,” I protest. “How tall are you?” Darrell asks me. “Five two,” I fib. It’s more like five one and a quarter. Tossing his spoon in the trash, Gabe says, “You’re so little you could fit in my pocket!” All the guys laugh. Peter’s smiling in a bemused way. Then Gabe suddenly grabs me and throws me over his shoulder like I’m a kid and he’s my dad. “Gabe! Put me down!” I shriek, kicking my legs and pounding on his chest. He starts spinning around in a circle, and all the guys are cracking up. “I’m going to adopt you, Large! You’re going to be my pet. I’ll put you in my old hamster cage!” I’m giggling so hard I can’t catch my breath and I’m starting to feel dizzy. “Put me down!” “Put her down, man,” Peter says, but he’s laughing too. Gabe runs toward somebody’s pickup truck and sets me down in the back. “Get me out of here!” I yell. Gabe’s already running away. All the guys start getting into their cars. “Bye, Large!” they call out. Peter jogs over to me and extends his hand so I can hop down. “Your friends are crazy,” I say, jumping onto the pavement. “They like you,” he says. “Really?” “Sure. They used to hate when I would bring Gen places. They don’t mind if you hang out with us.” Peter slings his arm around me. “Come on, Large. I’ll take you home.” As we walk to his car, I let my hair fall in my face so he doesn’t see me smiling. It sure is nice being part of a group, feeling like I belong.
Jenny Han (To All the Boys I've Loved Before (To All the Boys I've Loved Before, #1))
A good ad agency should know to never, ever mess with puppies. Yet somehow, Godaddy.com made the unspeakable blunder of creating a commercial where the puppy is not just unloved but also somewhat mistreated. The ad starts by pulling at the heartstrings, showing the puppy getting thrown from the back of a pick-up truck. The puppy then braves distance, weather, and terrain to get back to his owner, who is excited to see “Buddy” - but only because she had already sold him online with the help of a Godaddy website. The ad closes with this hag of a woman sending Buddy away and shouting, “Ship him out!” While our feelings for our fellow human beings can sometimes be mixed, our adoration for puppies is universal. If there’s one rule in marketing, it is this - thou shalt not mess with the puppies! Godaddy.com received a gargantuan amount of backlash and millions of inquiries regarding the well-being of Buddy the puppy. Can you believe this ad was supposed to run in the Superbowl?
Adam Douglas (Mega Fails: The Hilariously Funny Book of Humorous Blunders and Misadventures (Crazy True Stories and Anecdotes))
At sea, the darker the night the closer you will get to your past. The music you decide to play is the radio dial of your history. Van Morrison’s “Have I Told You Lately” played as I stared at the setting moon. This is a song that always transports me to a New Hampshire backroad of my youth. Her name was Katie. She was tall, blond, and wore the girl next door look like an angel. She was smart, funny, and kind. She infatuated me from the moment I met her at Wentworth Marina. She was the daughter of two well-to-do doctors from upstate New York. It was her plan to sail around the world, and she wanted me to join her. “Just to mate” she would always say with a wink. She told me, “Pull over, pull over. I love this song. We have to dance.” So I found myself with goosebumps despite dancing in the warmth of the summer air. The sky around us filled with the flashing luminance of fireflies, and it seemed like we were dancing in the heavens above. You could almost touch the music as it drifted out of my truck windows. I will never forget the look in those crystal-blue eyes as we danced to that song alongside my Dodge Ram pickup. Little did I know it would be the last night I would ever get to look into them again.
Kenton Geer (Vicious Cycle: Whiskey, Women, and Water)
A red light stopped the Subaru at a three-pronged intersection where a McDonald’s sat opposite a KFC which sat across from a Taco Bell and waiting behind the Subaru on her way to a robbery Alabama watched as a monstrously fat woman marched out of the McDonald’s while guzzling from a box of fries and continued right on into the KFC and Alabama noticed now a billboard high above the KFC upon which a skinny blonde with perky tits wrapped in the Stars and Stripes stood on top of an aggressively masculine pickup truck like a white-trash Wonder Woman beside giant text which read “PICKUP A HOT CHICK IN THE NEW DODGE RAM” and for one revelatory moment that passed just as quick Alabama had never in her life felt so American.
Philip Elliott (Porno Valley)
Just because we talk slow doesn't mean we think slow, others point out. On the East Coast they seem to think there's something funny about riding around in a pickup truck. Well in the Deep South, we don't think it's all that natural to hurdle through the dark in a crowded subway.
Maryln Schwartz
A weathered black and silver Dodge pickup towing a small motorboat pulled up behind us, and Alex circled back to greet the driver. I couldn’t see who sat behind the crusted and dirty windshield, but Alex stood at the driver’s window and pointed down the block where the boulevard disappeared into floodwater. The truck pulled ahead, maneuvered a deft U-turn, and backed toward the water. Alex motioned for me to follow. By the time I lurched my way to the truck, he and the pickup driver were sliding the boat down the trailer ramp. Sweat trickled down my neck, and if I hadn’t been afraid of being poisoned by toxic sludge, I’d have made like a pig and wallowed in the mud to cool off. I kicked at a fire hydrant, trying to jolt some of the heaviest sludge off my boots, and heard a soft laugh behind me. With a final kick that sent a spray of brown gunk flying, I turned to see what was so funny. I needed a laugh. A man leaned against the side of the pickup with his arms crossed. He was a few inches shorter than Alex, maybe just shy of six feet, with sun-streaked blond hair that reached his collar and a sleeveless blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. His tanned legs between the bottom of the shorts and the top of sturdy black shrimp boots were scored with scars, bad ones, as if whatever made them meant to do serious damage. He’d been grinning when I turned around, flashing a heart-stopping set of dimples, but when he saw my eyes linger on his legs, the grin eased into something more wary.
Suzanne Johnson (Royal Street (Sentinels of New Orleans, #1))