Monday, January 28, 2008

The Case for Carrying Garden Shears


The other day I pulled up to a stoplight behind one of those oversized trucks. The kind that’s built for hauling lumber or large boulders but that looks far too shiny to have ever seen that kind of hard labor. I felt sorry for the vehicle, which from commercials I knew should be freely roaming mountainsides and rolling in mud rather than idling at a suburban stoplight under three coats of turtle wax.

I studied the pristine truck bed, followed the chrome contours down to the wheels until finally my eye landed on something out of place, a dull something dangling grotesquely from the trailer hitch. It was purplish and a bit shriveled, droopy, as if a giant had seen this immaculate truck and conjured up a phlegm boomerang from the deepest recesses of his nostrils.

But it wasn’t a giant booger that had attached itself this poor truck, it was a scrotum.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen this sort of thing and it always elicits the same reaction, a desire for a mechanical claw that could reach out and pull them right off, stretching the reddish rubber until it snaps and the sacs thud to the ground just before my car tire pops them like zits.

The light turned green and the balls sped away from me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about them. What is the purpose of this auto accessory? To say, my balls are too big to fit inside my vehicle so I’ve hung them out here for everyone’s enjoyment while we navigate the city together?

I realize that if I were to paste a representation of my genitals on the back of my car it would mean something entirely different, a proclamation of promiscuity. Some might even think of it as an invitation. Or nothing at all, as I’m willing to bet many more men than would admit it probably wouldn’t even know what it was. “Hey, what’s that shriveled purple thing on that lady’s car?”


But aside from that, I have more respect for my lady parts. They are precious cargo, and so I choose to transport them safely inside the vehicle and not mere inches from the asphalt where they can get scraped and dusty.

But so what? Why do I care if some guys want dusty balls on their car? It took me awhile to figure out my visceral reaction to these perverse pods.

It’s like this. I get it. We all get it. You’re a guy. You drive a truck that requires a ladder to climb into. The Y-chromosome fairy has granted you a pair of heavenly orbs thereby bequeathing to you the keys to the kingdom, an unwarranted sense of superiority over lesser beings, lisence to interrupt women when they’re talking, grab our asses in bars, pass judgement on the way we look, coin terms like “cankles” and “muffin top.” We already get it. The rubber scrotum swinging from your trailer hitch is just a slap in the face reminder.

So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to start driving around with a pair of sharp garden shears dangling from my trailer hitch. It’s a simple message really, the general public is not interested in your balls. If given the opportunity, I’ll see to it they don’t have to look at them.

Good day to you sir.


2 comments:

John said...

Love it. Anyone who feels the need to dangle plastic testicles on the outside of a chrome and steel sexual representation deserves to have them snipped.

madwoman said...

I'm so glad I never saw that when I was driving. Yikes!