I disagree. The pickup driver still has hope. A dream, a wish, a future. They may be aggressive jerks on average, surely, maybe they think they're better, maybe they're a bit emotionally out of control, sure. But if they're in a game of chicken, if the icy spectre of death appears before them, they will still give pause to consider the stakes, to think of their loved ones.

There is another type of driver, completely void of fear, a driver who has stared into the abyss and become the dragon. And that is the minivan driver. All hope is lost for the minivan driver. First of all, they're driving a minivan, speaks for itself. Second, we're talking about a 20 year old beater minivan held together with duct tape, driven not by fuel but by a sort of vacuum energy, the bleak desolation of it all, of life, nihilism on wheels. If such a vehicle is faced with a game of chicken, the driver won't blink but embrace the mortal transition to nirvana knowing their estate will only lose the market value of 1 beater minivan, about $20 and that death will be a sweet release from their miserable life