There is nothing poetic about a Uhaul truck. I've tried, truly.

1. My truck was 14 feet long, which made it big enough to make roadkill out of a Honda but small enough to get flattened by a semi. So we can rule out any poetic reference to "a behemoth of epic proportions rumbling over pavement like a lightning bolt of Thor."

2. There was nothing high-tech about the cockpit. By the gods it even had manual windows! No CD/MP3 player. No heated seats. No dashboard GPS. Thus no musings like, "I felt as Luke Skywalker must have felt the first time he climbed into an x-wing....awestruck and assured that I've finally made it to the real deal. There's a reason for the U in Uhaul - it's sUper!"

3. It was automatic transmission. Not many people like stick shifts anymore. Some don't even know what they are. But there is indisputably something unique about driving one. There is a sense of control, as if the vehicle were an extension of your mind. The signal goes from the brain the the arm to the hand to the...stick. Damn right! .....but no, not in a Uhaul.

4. Even the storage box is decidedly unsexy. I mean, shouldn't I be conjuring up images of sweaty, acrobatic sex on top of boxes of books and kitchen appliances and unopened Christmas gifts? Shouldn't the vibration from cruising over the highway's rumble strip take orgasm to a level higher? Nope. A Uhaul is square, dark, claustrophobia-inducing, and either extremely hot or extremely code. And the vibrations do not purr. You hit a bump in the road and before you know you're removing yourself from a table leg.

5. The gas mileage on those things is, how shall I say, vomit-inducing. At .9052 miles per gallon, you soon realize each stoplight is costing you a house payment. In the time it takes to "seek" through the fm radio selections the time has come to once again sink $90 into the gas sieve, er, tank. If I could have seen what was going on behind the truck, I'm sure I would have seen a long trail of gasoline. Kind of like a dog marking it's territory. Hmmm....not particularly poetic.

6. The "helpful" signs and gauges do nothing to assuage my trepidation. One sign says, "Speed Kills. Slow Down." Well damn, just take all the rest of the fun out of it, eh? And how about the gas mileage gauge, which indicates the optimal speed for the optimal mileage? How am I supposed to be comforted when I'm going 55 and the needle is already past the red line. In my experience, being over the red line is NEVER a good thing.

7. And finally, because I am always looking out for the little guy, my one-year old cousin got screwed. At first it was funny and redeeming that the monkey genius (as he is known) apparently liked the truck. He climbed up the ramp like a veteran of Mount Everest, checked out the goods, and then turned around and sat at the top of the ramp expecting to be able to slide down. As far as I'm concerned, that is a reasonable expectation. Alas for a ridged ramp. The kid just had to sit there.

Where's the justice?