The Horse and the Crazy Lady

Occasionally, when you least expect it, crazy rears its sporadically-toothed head. Such was the case this past Sunday when I took my six year-old boy on a walk behind my parent’s house. With us for what would be the journey to the center of the nutbar universe was my brother and his two sons, aged 14 and 12.

The area we walked in is an elevated former railroad track, with a recently paved sidewalk on the Eastern side, and a bridle trail (for horses) over the hill of the tracks on the Western side. We had walked a good long way, and were on our way back along the Western side when the five of us heard a large something up ahead rumbling through the dried grasses. We weren’t surprised to see a woman riding a stocky grey horse, because this part of town is zoned for horses. What we were surprised to see was that the rider of the horse seemed to be having a tad bit of trouble staying on top of her beastie.

She was easily in her 60’s with the kind of crazy, wispy greyish hair one might associate with wicked witches, circa 1880’s prospector’s wives, or Keith Richards.



She was grunting and pulling, making her best attempt to control what was clearly spiraling toward chaos, and everybody in the walking party froze to watch what was going to happen next.

What did happen next was that the horse, probably pissed off about being literally saddled with a woman sporting fewer teeth than itself, spotted us and decided to attack. It came running at us as hard as it could down the steep hill, giving me the sort of wave of panic I usually only feel when someone walks into my office right after I’ve unleashed a post-Mexican lunch fart.

The horse’s eyed bulged, but focused on the five of us, and its hooves stomped down the hill, tearing up yucca plants and grass, with Crazy Lady yanking hard on the reins and barking at it to stop. There was no cover nearby for the five of us, excepting some ancient, rotting wooden fence posts that had been erected sometime in the early 1900’s, and my mind scrambled to find some sort of safe harbor for my son. I had with me a pocket knife with a four inch blade that I immediately pulled and locked open, whilst telling my son to stay close to me. I put him on one side of the fence post, and I stood on the other side ready to take a poke at the horse should he decide that the two of us would be the most fun to trample. This knife tactic, I quickly realized, would most likely be as effective a defense at this point as playing a Yanni CD.



But when Yanni is your best defense, by golly you cue that sucker up and grit your teeth.

My brother and his boys were staying mobile, but drifting back toward my position to defend my son when the horse, suddenly succumbing to the feverish jerking and screaming by its now hysterical rider, pulled up. Crazy Lady began to loudly berate the horse for its misbehavior, smacking the ever-living crap out of it with the reins, and the horse in turn tried to swing its head around to bite her. This graceful dance went on for some time, with the rhythmic smack-bite-smack-bite choreography, and the horse then reared around, slinging Crazy Lady to an almost sideways mount. She kept her determined grip and, telling the horse how naughty it was, regained a vertical position, just in time for the horse to take off back up the hill.

We watched from our defensive positions as Crazy Lady and Psychosis the Horse disappeared over the tracks, with the sweet music of their duel to the death ebbing into the breeze.

"You stupid wild horse! You know better than this! I’m gonna..."

Bite! Bite! Smack! Bite!

Thus, we escaped with our lives, and I didn’t have to scar my son for life by stabbing a horse and/or being trampled to death.

He informed me this morning on the way to kindergarten that yesterday in Share Circle, he told the class that he got to go on a walk with his dad, his uncle and his cousins, and then got attacked by a crazy old lady with five teeth on a horse.

I’m anticipating a concerned call from his teacher anytime now.

7:20 AM - 9 Comments - 9 Kudos - Add Comment

Discrimination Rears Its, Like, Totally Ugly Head

It must be hard to be a cute girl. Because there's nothing so difficult in life as being stared at by testosterone addled men who cede control of their thought processes, and their money, to their genitals when you smile, giggle, and hoist up your heaving bosoms.

Seriously. It must be very much like one of Dante's circles of Heck to have to deal with the lavishing of attention, the gifts from horny suitors, and the angry envy of not-nearly-as-cute older women. Case in point, two self-recognized cute girls suffered terrible discrimination at the hands of what appear to be portly decrepit hags serving as cute girl-hating flight attendants on a Southwest airlines flight. Why? It's clear. The two downtrodden girls were
just too cute.


The Victims

The horrible intolerance of the near-troll flight attendants was spurred, according to cute girls Nisreen Swedberg and Sarah Williams, by pure hatred of perky breasts, well-maintained buttocks and heavy eye makeup. "I mean, nobody else on the plane looked like us except us."

This scintillating, reasoned logic put forth is a classic example of the woeful treatment of our cute girls. We, as a nation, should feel great shame for our oppression and persecution of those among us who bear the cross of sexual attractiveness.

Please join me in a moment of silence in honor of Nisreen and Sarah, and let us not forget that, even though you're probably not cute, you might know someone who is. Let's drop what we're doing, and give them an expensive gift, or just tell them what nice ta tas they have.

It's the least we can do.

8:34 AM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Looky looky

I have to stop watching American Idol with my oh-so-hot wife. Even though at this early stage in the season is when it typically is the best - when the screeching, bug-eyed psychos come out and do the vocal equivalent of vomiting in the ears of the American tv-viewing public. Then, after a quick little insult session from the pompous Englishman, they go on curse-laden tirades and tell the world: I'll make it someday! I'll be rich and famous! Simon can suck the @*! out of my @!!!

The problem I have is the same one I've noticed I've had for the last few years - namely the attractive women that parade up on stage and make me raise an eyebrow involuntarily. This wouldn't be so much of a problem usually, except that nowadays I don't just have the Yowza bab-ay! Look at those! sorts of thoughts like I used to. Now, they're accompanied by pangs of outright guilt. Why? Let me give you an example.

Last Tuesday, a cute little blonde chick wandered up on stage in front of the judges, batting her sexy eyes and holding her mouth in that take me now, Matty sort of way, sending my nether regions into DefCon 3. It was then when they flashed up the contestant's name on the screen, along with her age.

Sixteen years old.

Holy mother of cheese! I suddenly thought. Did that just say she was sixteen?!?

Immediately, I began to look around the room for Chris Hansen, and sharp pangs of guilt zipped through me like Rosie O'Donnell at a Chinese buffet.



When did this crap start happening?! I used to look at hotties freely, without so much as a second thought as to whether or not the curvy little temptress I was staring at might be on her way to third period econ class. Now, if I have even a hint of a thought that's less than pure as the driven snow, my Dirty Old Man Alarm goes off in my head, and imaginary nuns begin rapping my knuckles with rulers, shouting "Stop squeezing her buns in your mind, you degenerate reprobate!"

It's awful.

The lesson here is that even though 34 isn't the new 80, I have to stop watching American Idol. Because now, along with any visions of cute minxes bouncing around on stage, I'll be experiencing equal portions of unpleasant shame the likes of which no man could ever bear.



Well, except maybe Fred Thompson.

7:35 AM - 5 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Commercial Appeal

So there I am, watching football, when a commercial comes on. It shows a regular guy resting on a blanket near a lake with a woman who's so far out of his league, one might think he's holding her dog as a hostage just to get her to be alone with him in this secluded locale. She, however, seems quite all right with the fact that she's there with this doofus, and suddenly makes for the water after making come-hither eyes at him. She pulls off her top and suggests they go for a "dip," and dives in the water.

This guy, after hearing the word "dip" suddenly begins to think of a fast food "dip" sandwich and runs off to his car, apparently to get his hands on a semi-warm greasy slab of Arby's, instead of going for a romp in the lake with Miss Yowza Yowza.

The writers of this commercial, I'm sure, thought this would let the viewers know that an Arby's sandwich is so good, it's preferable to a tryst in the water with a woman so very hot, you'd be a legend to men five generations down the family line. It makes me want to stay the hell away from Arby's for the rest of my natural life.

Because the message here is unmistakable: Eating Arby's turns you into an idiot.

8:09 AM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Tit for Tats
Category: Life

Being an art guy, I sympathize with most starving artists out in the real world, trying to scratch out a living from their true love.  I count myself as one of the lucky few who gets paid to, among other things, hide my buddy Dan's head in photos.

I've never been a tattoo artist, mostly because I never spent a lot of time practicing drawings of demons eating puppies.  It was always an intriguing skill I thought I might be able to acquire should I ever wind up doing time in the clink for dogfighting, but one that wouldn't exactly look as good on my resume as, say, Photoshop. So I've never persued the trade.

I think there might be quite the upside to being a tat ar-teest. The most blazingly apparent one is getting to apply one of those famous Tramp Stamp tats immediately above the butt crack of a cute, drunken sorority girl, who's doing her very best to show that, even though she still uses daddy's Visa card, she's on her own now.

You have to balance those opportunities out with the very real possibility that the majority of your tattooing will be spent applying flaming skulls with pythons coming out of their eyes to Mr. Razor the Hell's Angel. And if he dislikes your composition, there's no eraser brush to save you from being beaten down like O.J. Simpson at the Goldman family reunion.

Another item aspiring art guys might want to consider is the other things you might have to do as a tattoo artist. Sure there's ink cleanup, instrument sterilization, and the occasional screams of agony coming from your canvas, but you may also have to get deeply involved in marketing.  I saw a pair of tattoo artists doing just that on my way home form the office today as I passed their new tat shop.  There they were, standing on the sidewalk, with big green rubber alien masks on, holding signs with arrows that said "Tattoos!"

Sheer genius! I thought. With those professional-looking big rubber masks on, they're sure to grab some fresh business from the 9-to-5ers on their way home from the office, who have been meaning to get that tribal arm band tat before they make their run to Safeway for potatoes!

For now, I'll just stick with hiding Dan's head in the magazine. But maybe, just maybe, somewhere down the road, I might just be the guy with the buzzing needle gun, putting that butterfly on Phi Delta Brooke's tushie.

She can pay with daddy's Visa.

7:23 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Am I Evil?

I was enlisted to watch the four and five-year-olds at church a few Sundays ago, which is a normal activity for me and my OH-so-hot wife.

There was one little boy in attendance named Ben, who wasn't one of our regular young 'uns. Ben was a little quiet, but a good kid who kept to himself for the first ten or fifteen minutes or so. Later in the morning, however, when I asked him if he wanted some snack, he said, "No thank you, Lord Vader."

For the rest of the day, he continually referred to me as "Lord Vader" in the kind of reverent voice one might use when addressing the actual Darth Vader, had one been an apprentice evil Jedi.

I can't decide if I should feel slightly guilty for not only having answered to the name of the baddest of bad guys in the galaxy, but also having the urge, right there in church, to command my new little Sith go out and slaughter anyone who stood in the way of our quest for galactic dominance.

4:13 PM - 8 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Disgusting, I Know

We had a new wing built onto our offices last March. Included in our new wing is a shiny new men's bathroom, complete with a sweet new shower so that, after meetings with unsavory agents, I can wash off the slime from being in close proximity. Score!

This bathroom was designed with the newest bathroom technology, and, after a few months of using the new facilities, I can firmly say that the whole thing sucks right out loud.

The shower is nice and all, but the main purpose of the bathroom is to have a nice spot to pee or read the paper whilst making plop plop. Shockingly, this brand new bathroom turns out to be awful in both respects to numbers one and two.

The toilet sits all nice and comfy, and you can dwell there for hours catching up on back issues of Sports Illustrated, GQ or Ladies Home Journal. The problem is that when it's time to send the chocolate eggs down the chute, you'd better be standing four feet outside the stall, cause once you hit that flush, a jet engine kicks on and sprays a cool shower of toilet water all over the seat, floor, and anyone within normal flushing distance. Frigging sick doesn't even begin to describe it.

When it's time to tinkle, most men, like me, head straight for the urinal. Sure it looks like a standard urinal, complete with porcelain maw and shiny silver flusher, but it was clearly designed by Satan or one of his dark minions. This particular urinal is sloped in such way that it doesn't actually catch the whiz, but rather deflects it like a gladiator's shield all over your slacks and upon your shoes. The result is that now, when approaching this one and only urinal, you have to aim carefully at a three micron area in the upper left side and bank your shot around the bowl so as to save yourself from an unpleasant spattering and possible staining experience.

Does this hone my precision peeing skills? Of course it does, and it'll surely come in handy this winter when I get to teach my boys how to write their names in the snow, but as of right now, it's just an irritation.

So keep in mind, gentle readers: a bathroom where you can actually leave the various bodily substances behind is apparently too much to ask from modern builders. The next time you walk into that new bathroom at the mall, at work, or even in a new home... bring an apron and some rubber boots.

4:14 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Nature: Out for Blood

Few things strike terror in my heart like when Al Gore tells me that the earth is going to be so hot in a few years that even his one acre swimming pool may become uncomfortably warm.

Even more so, I find myself thinking that nature may very well be seeing what we're doing to the planet with environmentally unfriendly practices like continuing to feed Rosie O'Donnell (methane gas by the cubic ton!), and that nature itself might be looking to kill us all.

Seriously, what would you do if you were Mother Earth, and you were watching your precious planet get overrun with twinkie-eating doughnut monsters whose only real physical activity is getting out of the Excursion to waddle inside Kwik E Mart for a coupla ding-dongs and the latest issue of "Celebrity Pet Scandals"?

I'd be looking to dust a few of the bigger, fartier ones.

But how would you go about this if you're Mother Earth?  Lightning bolts are awesome, and it'd be real fun to watch the greasy ones cook up in nanoseconds like a kernel of popcorn, but that's time consuming. A good natural disaster like a hurricane, a tornado or a swarm of locusts would be pretty effective, but also quite cliche. 

Maybe, just maybe, you'd turn to a source the big blobby fat piggy humans would never suspect might be an agent of their doom. Like the trees.

Wouldn't it be really creepy if, say, a human/tree creature was spawned by Mother Earth to roam the world, selectively stalking human prey, plotting the downfall of all human kind, and occasionally robbing banks?

Now I don't know what this creature from the dark recesses of the earth has planned for us, but I do know that the next time I see a tree walk into a bank, I'm gonna have my concealed Craftsman 30hp chainsaw at the ready.

Bring it on, Mother Nature!

8:55 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The Beach

I went on vacation just this past week with my OH-so-hot wife and my two boys to a beach town on the Florida panhandle called Panama City. It's right on the Gulf Coast, and is known for its white sandy beaches, plentiful sunshine and, oh yes, its scads and scads of rednecks. So many, in fact, that it's also called the "Redneck Riviera." This is a richly deserved title, handed out to Panama City after a crack team of scientists measured the beach's sand-to-empty chaw can ratio and the air's concentrations of cigarette smoke and flying Wal-Mart sacks.

This little intro of mine may seem like I'm setting up a blog full of vitriolic hatred of Panama City, which is in fact not the case. My little boys loved it, as did my OH-so-hot wife, and I had a swell time there too. It was that this was a nuanced beach, with the kind of oddities you might expect to find in the Deep South anytime a lawn chair and cooler can be used as the focal points of the day's activities.

Where else in the world can you find two women sprawled out in lawn chairs on the beach, multi-tasking their parenting and relaxation techniques with phrases like "Bobby, get on over here and get your mama another Coors Light."?

And that wasn't even close to all of the natural redneck behavior I got to witness during my stay. While watching the sun set one evening, perched high atop our third-floor balcony, we watched a native redneck taking a full-on shower, soap included, with the garden hose. He seemed so awe-inspired by his ingenuity, he even exclaimed loudly, and I am not making this up, "Git 'er done!"

The one that got me though wasn't something that I found endemic to the rednecks of Panama City Beach. The incident of which I'll speak seems to be more indicative of the fundamental flaw in humanity. Allow me to tell the tale.

It was easy to swim out into the Gulf (provided you had a mask to peer under the surface) and pluck hermit crabs from the depths. I grew quite adept at this, and it impressed my little boys a great deal. We collected around 25-30 of the little creatures, which were no bigger than your pinkie.

Yeah, you just looked at your pinkie.

Anyhow, I got hold of one that was about twice the size as the others, and put it into the bucket of sand and ocean water we had collected them in for my boys. My oldest decided the large one was the "Big Grandaddy" crab. We took the pail up to the deck of the pool where my kids could swim unfettered by the ocean currents, but with their new temporary "pets" nearby. With the pail on the deck and me, my 5-year-old boy and my father-in-law in the water, we watched a lady with her grandson looking through our collection of hermit crabs. She was around 55-60, and seemed genuinely interested in showing off the little bugger to her grandchild, so I thought little of it and continued swimming. Apparently, that was all the time she needed to pocket ol' Big Grandaddy and make her way quickly off the pool deck.

That's right, she stole my prize crab. Stole it. Purloined my crustacean. And all in front of my oldest boy, who seemed confounded that a grown woman would walk off with something that wasn't hers.

I have no idea why this sort of thing happened, but I can't help but think that somewhere, in a dumpster behind the Whispering Seas condos in Panama City, there's a butter and Coors Light marinated shell that used to be the home of Big Grandaddy. And a stupid thieving redneck woman with the smell of crab on her tobacco spit-laden lips.

4:51 PM - 4 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Feeling Alive

I re-lived a bit of my college days last night. Which is to say I was up in the middle of the night, hovering over the toilet, covered in fresh barf from head to toe. Well, mostly from neck to toe, but it was still fresh, warm hurl the likes of which would make the chick from the Exorcist say "Damn, that's some puke right there!"

Was this the result of a night spent beer bonging with the baseball team or taking shots of Jager from a plastic tumbler with "DU Pioneer Hockey" written on the side? Of course not, you big goob. I'm 33 frigging years old. Why the hell would I do that to myself?

You see, now that I'm a mature adult, I don't need to get kersmackled on hooch to really feel alive and vibrant. I can feel alive and vibrant by staggering out of bed in the middle of the night, grabbing the screaming two-year-old from his bed and not moving quite quickly enough to the toilet before he lets fly with a mucous-like mix of bile, 7up, and Cheerios in a warm avalanche down the front of my shirt.

And I'm telling you brother, there's nothing in the world that lets you know you're alive like steaming upchuck dripping into your shorts when you'd usually be dreaming of... pretty much anything besides being barfed on.

It was a stark reminder to me that, even though my college days are far behind me, as are my binge drinking days, I can still experience the exhilaration... the thrill... and the stomach-churning odor of fresh sick, thanks to me and my OH-so-hot wife deciding to breed.

And I get to enjoy all this without taking so much as a sniff of tequila.

4:42 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

What Motivates Men

So here I am, wondering why the hell my blog views quadrupled in the last week, after my post which included the photo of the smiling, big-breasted, bubble-blowing minx.

I suspect the reason might be that, even though I was making sport of the fine young lady with the penchant for the Wonder Bubbles, there's a segment of the populace that, brace yourself, digs looking at women with big breasts.

Weird, I know.

It just goes to show that the entire world population of men is driven almost exclusively by their need to experience naked women in one form or another. You can take absolutely anything historically significant and this will be proven to be true time and again.

Take for example, the American Revolution. Sure, there was a lot of lofty talk about freedom of religion and not paying taxes to some inbred throne squatter half a world away. But what it boiled down to was the fact that American colonists thought that slapping around some of those wussy-looking Red Coats in their powdered wigs might get the attention of awesomely-endowed Charity McDougal, or at least her cute friend.

You always thought that George Washington crossing the Delaware River was a ploy to attack Hessian mercenaries, when in fact he was trying to get his tushie back to New Jersey after Martha Washington dispatched a letter to him on the front lines reading: "I hast nothing girding my nether regions, and long for Mr. Happy. Hasten your journey, for the children are sleeping over at the Jefferson's house."

Of course, not everything men do to impress women winds up creating the greatest democracy the world has ever known. Some of the more notable recent examples of men trying to woo women include Green Bay Packers running back Najeh Davenport, who thought pooping in a closet was a sure fire seduction of the highest degree, and recently declassified documents captured by U.S. officials in Afghanistan reveal the whole Osama Bin Laden Attack America thing was concocted by the bearded psychopath when he discovered his hot neighbor Fyur Breetchus didn't like McDonald's, and thought a few well-placed terror attacks might just get him some cuddle time.

What does this historical record tell us? It tells us that every creation of men, at its root, was done with one thing in mind.

Which is why I'm gonna show this blog to my OH-so-hot wife. With every chuckle I get out of her, my chances of a game of George Washington Crossing the Delaware just get better.

4:23 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Strange Women on the Prowl

I'm a married man. Not just a little bit married, but a whole lot married. As in, not only does my OH-so-hot wife have the full wedding ring set, but also we've combined our DNA to make two little people. We've also gone into debt together on a house, cars and various stacks of DVDs featuring purple dinosaurs or transforming robots. So you could say we're pretty much in it for the long haul.

So why is it that, whenever I go to log in here, there's this scantily clad, large-breasted harlot seemingly impervious to my married status, trying to get me to engage her in inuendo-laden conversation? I mean, it's not like I put on cologne or something before I log on here. And yet, every time I try to do my duty and write a few dozen lines of smart aleck remarks for the six people who read my blog, there one is!

Take this one for instance:



Sure she seems quite deft at using the bubble wand, and her incredible interest in pillow fights may very well be #1 thing I might be looking for in a potential mate, but I'm simply not on the market. She doesn't seem to care about this fact, though I tried to gently explain it to her. She just keeps winking, blowing bubbles and practically begging me for a response. Even writing something more to the point like "Go lick a dead rat, toad face!" only seems to excite her all the more.

I had no idea I was so irresistible.

7:58 AM - 9 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Harassment

I mentioned in my last blog about a workplace harassment seminar I'll have to attend, which is designed to keep me from saying anything offensive to pansies who can't handle being called "porky," "bumblebutt," or "sphincter face." This is good, because there's nothing more important in the world than not offending anybody ever ever ever.

Just check out our population of illegal immigrants. Sure, they're illegally here, and they're also immigrants, but I'd never want to to offend them by actually calling them what they are. They might hold a march or something, with my face plastered on big signs reading "insensitive bastard white guy" and criminy sakes that would make me cry.

So I'll need to learn all the ins and outs of not being offensive. This isn't as easy as it might sound, because nowadays the guys who used to seem to be just asking to get made fun of can get you fired if you take the bait.

Say, for example, a great big doughnut scarfing extra hefty guy comes into a meeting and attempts to sit in a chair that clearly won't fit his enormous posterior. Let's also say that, after wedging himself in, the chair begins to creak and moan under the stress, finally giving way and sending our fat friend to the floor in a pile, crushing his cup of Caramel Latte and causing him to flatulate loudly. What's your gut instinct tell you to do?

If your answer was to announce "So that's where Saddam hid the WMD!" you've done the wrong thing.

I know it sounds like the natural thing to do, but apparently, part of being politically correct is ignoring the powerful mockery hormones released into your brain at times like these, and pretending it never happened. Even if the flatulence made the video screens in the room fall off the wall mounts.

So tomorrow, I'll be going over the finer aspects of not offending anyone so as to keep Jesse Jackson from picketing out in my front lawn with his paid staff of professional protesters. My OH-so-hot wife would be pissed if they tromp on the flowers.

1:02 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

A good offense

There's a "Harrassment Free Workplace Training" coming up for my company. When I got the email, I thought, Finally! Now I'll be able to get some work done around here.

Because, quite frankly, I've been a victim of harassment at the workplace for as long as I can remember. People are always coming in and out of my office, asking me things like, "Did you get my project done yet?" or "Are you done with the layout yet?" or "Why are you not wearing pants?"

This interminable harassment just keeps coming at me – and I was thinking of suing.

Hopefully, this training will make these people leave me alone so I can get back to my real work. It's a play I've written called "The Stinkville Chronicles," which is a dramatic protrayal of love gone awry – and enacted entirely by my toes.

3:34 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Trucks and Danglies

Are you sick and tired of being an anonymous nobody when you drive around in your oversized pickup truck that won't fit under the plastic awning you attached to the side of your mobile home? Do you worry that sometimes, someone might see your truck from behind and say something like, "That Ford over yonder with them chrome hubcaps and the nekkid lady mudflaps... she's a beaut!"

Well, fret no more, because now you can both distinguish yourself from the rest of the motoring public and let the whole world know that your truck isn't a girl truck, it's a boy truck with a new shiny set of...

TRUCK TESTICLES™



Nothing in the world will serve notice to everyone you drive past exactly what kind of man you are better than a plastic ball sack dangling from the trailer hitch of your pickup!

Here's a few questions we frequently hear about our amazing Truck Testicles™:

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Q: Testicles? For my truck? Isn't that too awesome to be true?

A: Yes, yes and no. Even Walker, Texas Ranger would nod his head in manly approval at plastic truck genitalia.

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Q: Are these testicles real? I don't want to think you guys go around cutting off people's balls for this.

A: While Truck Testicles™ look as authentic as the real thing, they're actually a mold taken from the carcass of King Kong, giving your truck the kind of balls you always wished you had, but didn't.

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Q: Do these come with pubes too?

A: Yes! You can order Enhanced Truck Testicles™ with sporadic authentic pube-like hairs in the mold, grown exclusively by Italian sheepherders!


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Q: What kind of person wants to look at a nut sack? Like, ever?

A: Aside from sexual deviants, absolutely no one! Which is why you'll garner so much more attention on the road! And as we all know from elementary school when you ate the beetle on the playground, any attention is good attention!


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So order your TRUCK TESTICLES™ today, and show the whole world what it means to be you!

4:23 PM - 3 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment