“Good afternoon sir, and welcome to the United States. My name is Officer Dave and I'll be handling your immigration process today. First may I ask your name, sir?”
“Yes, it's Neil Briscoe. Neil Martin Briscoe.”
“I see, and can I see your passport and visa, Mr Briscoe?”
“Here you go...”
“Thank you kindly, sir. Now then, what is your purpose in visiting the United States today sir?”
“Trucks.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Trucks. I want to get some trucks.”
“Trucks.”
Yes, trucks. You know, pickups. Big ones if you have them. I'm rather keen on them.”
“But sir, you're from Europe. You don't ‘get' trucks.”
“I know, I know - we're supposed to be all about sensible hatchbacks and MPVs right? I get it. Europeans drive small cars, Americans drive big trucks. Well, to be honest Officer Dave, I'm sick of it. I want to throw off the oppressive shackles of the European motoring Gestapo and hurl myself into the great, shining, wide-open freedom of American truck driving - the F-150, the Silverado, the Ram - as they wind down the mighty roads of west Texas, with my best gal by my side!”
“Sir, you're causing a scene sir...”
“We'd sing, sing, sing! Oh, I'm a Trucker-Jack and I'm OK, I sleep all night and I truck all day...”
*Chorus: He's a Trucker-Jack and he's OK. He sleeps all night and he trucks all day.*
“Where in the heck did that choir come from?”
“Good, aren't they? I thought a little bit of music would help. You see, I'm just sick and tired of driving the same old hatchbacks with puny little engines and tiny boots. I want the kind of car that can seat five in proper comfort, drive up the side of a mountain, cross deserts and carry a light tactical tank in the load-bed. I want a truck, Mr American Person! Please, give me a truck now!”
“You're not going to sing again, are you?”
“Probably not. Depends...”
*Taps keyboard*
It says here sir, that you can get just such a car right here in Europe. It's called a Volkswagen Amarok Atacama. It's a little bit cheaper than the range-topping Canyon version, but it has the same 180hp engine, the same cabin with three full-size seats in the back, the same load bed, the same off-road ability, the same off-road comfort. You can have the truck of your dreams right here sir. In fact it says here you've just driven it.”
I know, that's what kicked it all off for me. You see, until I'd driven the Amarok I just didn't get it. I didn't understand why Americans all drove pickups. I was ignorant, lost. Now I've seen the light, I understand - I want to have the pickup life too.”
I get that sir, I really do. But, it says here that you can have that life right here in Ireland. You don't have any need to come to America.”
“Yes, but it's so expensive. You have to pay eight grand in VRT to get one. That's not freedom, that's practically Communism!”
“Sorry sir, Ireland's taxation laws are not America's problem. Entry to the United States denied.”
“No, wait, this is unfair! You can't keep me out! I want a flat-bed with a Hemi! I want a car that's twelve yards long and two lanes wide! I want freedom on wheels! I throw myself on the mercy of the INS! Don't send me back, don't make me live without pickups!”
“Sir, don't make me fetch the rubber glove...”
“Fair enough. It was worth a try.”