Dear Driver of the Ford F-350 with the testicles dangling off your bumper,
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to drive behind you this morning on that boring stretch of rural Texas road. Here I was, zoning out to the sound of the children’s chatter, when you came along and spruced up my day.
Your truck was rather unremarkable—very much like all the other massive pickups on the road—except for one critical detail. The balls.
The great big ball sack your family had admired, made the decision to purchase, and lovingly attached (with some effort, I’m sure!) beneath your bumper. For several minutes, I mulled over your rather odd accessory.
Your vehicle’s testicles swung back and forth before me for ten whole miles, their weight depicted in the sagging, rippling skin. I imagined a sculptor (a man, no doubt) creating the mold for this piece, with painstaking attention to every nook and cranny of this familiar and well-loved body part.
I chuckled, visualizing the man inside your truck with the Napoleon complex, the one so intent on exposing his masculinity that he attached genitals to his vehicle. I just had to take a peek. I slowly switched lanes and inched forward, not wanting to give you the impression that I might be challenging you to a race.
And there you were: a woman. A young woman, done up, with a child in the back. Curiouser and curiouser, Alice.
Well, I’ll give it to you, lady. You’re one hell of a wife, putting up with balls on your family truck! Or maybe you like them, too. Maybe you like the message it sends about your husband, your family, your values. Gosh, I’d just love to pick your brain on that topic one day!
Until we meet again, hang loose!