Are Those...BALLS?!?
Driving. Commuting. On my way. What do mine eyes see before me but a retinal assault dangling below the bumper of the pickup truck ahead of me. Balls. Testicles. A beanbag. Bouncing with every bump, waving with every stop.
This is uncharted tawdry territory. At what point does a person say to themselves, “My vehicle could use a nutsack”? And just what are we, the innocents lucky enough to find ourselves being greeted by your gaudiness, supposed to infer from your odd choice of ornamentation? Your Ford came equipped with cojones? Your Chevy has a package? What does this mean?!?
I can see the scene unfolding in suburban driveways across
“Hey there, Richard…car trouble?”
“No, Peter, just hanging a set of rubber nuts on the ol’ Dodge…”
The other day I waved a ninety-pound stick of a woman perched behind the wheel of a gianormous diesel-engined Dodge dually pickup truck ahead of me. She waved her thanks and pulled out in front of me. And then I saw them waving at me, too - the bumper balls. Why, lady? Why? Were they yours once? Or perhaps those of an ex-husband? Did you get them in the divorce?
Hey, do you think I can get a vagina for my Escape?
