Seriously. I want to understand this. I’m straining to understand this. Yes, I know they’re called trucker balls or trucker nuts, and yes, I know some politico is trying to get them banned in Maryland, but what I want is, to understand them.
I happened to follow a pair of 'em out of the Wal-Mart parking lot and some considerable way down Water Street today, so I had ample time to study them (not to mention the spanking-new pickup, the double glass packs, the light bar, the rollbars, the huge tires, and the overweight fifty-something white guy behind the wheel with “weekend warrior” all over his jowly face), and now I’m sitting here with my pair of X chromosomes, wondering. Just wondering.
I’m married to a Y chromosome who doesn’t seem to feel a need to swing a pair of red plastic testicles from his Ford Taurus. So, does my guy just lack the 'nads to go down to Auto Zone and let it all hang out and shock the old ladies at Wal-Mart? Is the Weekend Warrior the one I should have selected to father my children? Does the ability to drive around Decatur, Illinois with a pair of red plastic testicles decorating one’s car denote a high-status male, and all the guys driving around without 'em are pussies, and inferior breeding material?
I can only guess that some guys think they’re funny and/or shocking. I dunno. I think they’re kinda silly - especially the camoflage patterned models - but I’m not the target market.
I also don’t get filling the back window of your sedan with stuffed animals or installing neon lights or wheel spinners or spoilers or chrome tailpipes. Each to his own, I guess.
I was driving behind a pair of silver ones this morning that were attached to the back of a pickup truck. Honestly, I thought a little silver garbage bag had gotten stuck to the bottom of the truck until I got a closer look. How odd.
Well, my poke at the long answer is that the balls’ owner feels that the greatest pleasure known to driving humankind is in the indeterminable torture of the faint souls driving behind them.
. . . Which wakes in me the strange desire to mount a giant scissor on the front of my car.