To the dude with the swingy balls on your pick-up truck–thanks. Thanks so much. I’ve always wanted to have a long explanatory conversation with my seven-year-old daughter about male genitalia and why d-bags such as yourself feel the need to parade them around town on the back of their jacked-up redneck mobiles. You sir, are a gem.
That was me being sarcastic. And now, here’s me being kind: I think you’re an idiot. P.S.: Grow up.
We get it–you’re manly. And hilarious. As if we didn’t understand that when we saw you driving your giant gas-guzzling $50,000 monster truck with the 6ft-tall tires up and down the street. You’re not hauling hay, you’re not pulling a boat; you don’t even live in the country. Your yard is the size of my dining room table and you can’t even park in your garage, but you darn sure drive something that screams “Look at me!”
You could have stopped there. Way to go the extra mile!
And I’m sure the ladies love you–because nothing says jackass quite like a teeny redneck man climbing down a ladder to get out of the truck with fake nuts hanging off the rear end.
I think I speak for…me…when I say that your balls are gross. They’re not cool or funny. They’re inappropriate and embarrassing. I don’t want to see them, but more importantly, I don’t want my kids to see them. They don’t need to see them. Apparently I now have to blindfold my children in traffic so that sweethearts such as yourself can flaunt the manhood they so desperately crave.
But I don’t sweat it. So, you paid actual money for vehicular testicles. Chances are good to excellent that there’s more testosterone in those little silver balls than there is in your entire body. Congratulations! Now you know.
Next time you want to tout your character by way of automotive decor, perhaps you should consider purchasing a brass (insert name of female anatomy here). Except hang it from your rear-view mirror instead.