An SUV is not just a car, but a magical machine capable of hypnotizing crowds and repelling attacks by invisible enemies.
Once, everything was simple: a big-foreheaded guy in a cap, with a stare like a hedgehog at a bodybuilding show. Now, an SUV is a symbiosis of “Girl plus Tank.” The secret of this choice is hidden in the depths of the Universe.
First, safety.
A woman in an SUV feels like a snail in a nuclear reactor: curbs, flowerbeds, and sedans turn into tiny crumbs in a giant soup of steel and determination. Didn’t a pea diet help? No problem—the Toyota Land Cruiser’s airbags will go off so loudly even the neighbor’s cactus will gasp.
Second, parking.
Our parking spaces are such that only the thought of parking fits in them. Men grumble: “Women can’t squeeze in!” But now you can simply park the SUV on the roof of a compact car and leave a note: “Pardon, the spot is occupied by gravity.”
Third, image.
An SUV isn’t a fur coat—it’s a space shuttle: expensive, noticeable, practical. Even an X-ray won’t spot an expensive handbag, but an SUV is visible from a satellite.
Psychologists whisper: a big car is a beacon of independence and a threat to exes—even if the ex is a traffic cop with a whistle and a metal detector.
Finally, capacity.
The trunk of an SUV can swallow a wardrobe, a refrigerator, and a couple of random philosophers for quarantine. And if you run into an ex—you can hide in there yourself and barricade with emergency canned stew.
Let’s wish girls in SUVs endless roads and a soundtrack from outer space.
Men, don’t be scared: if a blonde in an all-terrain mammoth passes you, know this—she’s rushing to get a manicure or to pick up a new universe. Anything is possible!