For the love of all that is good and kind, the answer is an astounding no. Let me tell you why you are headlong down the slippery slope of fail. First you bought and installed the interior black lights and realized chicks weren't quite digging you and your failtruck like you thought they would. Then, instead of realizing your fail, and admitting your fail, you decided in your infinite failness, that you were playing the wrong kind of music. It couldn't possibly be your poor judgement causing fail, it most definitely has to be the music. So you thought in yet another brilliant moment of fail that chicks would dig you and your failtruck if you began playing unce unce unce unce on your failtruck fail stereo. But alas chicks again failed to see the allure of your failtruck, and in fact their reaction to it was similar to frightened children running from white windowless vans playing ice cream truck jingles. Instead of creating the chick magnet, you instead created an even better failtruck that invokes a sense of dread and fear in your local female community. In fact, if you had taken a moment to turn down the unce unce unce unce, you would have heard the distinct sound of thousands of sphincters simultaneously clenching shut in sheer terror. But noooo. You drove around your local town with the windows rolled down (the only way to roll in your failtruck) thinking everyone laughing at you was really checking you out and secretly yearning for a ride in your failtruck. But again, when the chicks failed to pound down your door you never once thought in your infinite failness that it could possibly be the fail truck itself with all twelve miles to it's gallon. It couldn't possibly be the interior blacklights, or it's oversized tires rubbing the wheel wells when you lowered it. It couldn't possibly be the unce unce unce unce music, because chicks dig the unce unce, right. No it must be because all the chicks sitting at the intersection couldn't hear the brilliance of the unce unce unce unce coming out of the failtruck.
So the latest fail in your slippery slope to faildom is to sacrifice the back bench of an already limited cabin, in order to better distribute the sound of fail not only to all the chicks at the intersection, but you wanted a sound system so awesome that the chicks sitting in Starbucks would run out to check you out in your failtruck. So you disassembled your bass rig, and instead created the ultimate subwoofer of fail. Now when you roll, playing your unce unce unce unce in your failtruck, hippos in Africa suddenly become aroused, and much to the chagrin of the local tribes becoming sexually acosted by these aroused hippos, you carry on failing. This is also partly the reasoning behind the sudden influx of fat chicks suddenly taking interest in your failtruck. But instead of getting laid an interesting phenomenon has begun. At first, you blamed the bad meat of taco bell, so in the infinite fail of your failness, you concluded that you should buy better food for your fat dates, because we all know that you have no chance of getting laid without feeding the fatties. But alas you can never blame your failtruck. That can't possibly be the reason why you are perpetually cleaning the stench of poop from your passenger seat. So until you realize that that subwoofer is reason all your fat dates suddenly crap thrmselves when you turn on the unce unce unce unce, and until you accept the infinite fail of your failtruck, the answer is an astounding no. I to not want a ride in your failtruck. Even a forest of pine tree air fresheners hanging from your rearview mirror cannot rid you of the stench of fail. My two cents
