on the grand unified theory of trucks and penises

and why you might not want to share this with your uncle

The life of a troll is rough.

The goal that we sub bridge dwellers aspire to is to regularly provoke people on purpose. We like to stick our fingers up the arse end of morality and civility for our amusement and pleasure.

Occasionally though, we are trollish unintentionally.

And this fool dear reader is no exception to unintentional offensiveness.

Before delving into a tale of humiliation and em-bare-ass-ment I need to set the stage with a bit of a theoretical framework around trucks.

Trucks dear reader are more than just vehicles. They are objects of both projection and compensation.

My truck for example is a bit stinky, old fashooned, highly functional, durable and has a solid frame despite some parts of the body that are rough around the edges.

This is a projection of how I see myself and my penis.

New trucks?

They’re fancy, full of screens, overpowered and highly sensitive. Sure they have a lot of bells and whistles but they are complex and difficult to work with. They make a lot of noise and are both overpowered and overpowering. They’re a lot of show but aren’t really built to just get the job done the way my truck does.

New truck drivers? They have fancy penises.

Now, imagine the parking lot of a typical suburban / semi rural grocery store / coffee shop / McDonalds. There you’ll find a man with a beard, tattoos, a ball cap worn backwards and a big truck all jacked with a 6” lift kit, 22” wheels, flared fenders and air intakes all over the hood.

They’re covered with stickers but rarely covered in mud. That truck is an example of a man who is compensating for his Viagra addiction. Not only this, the endless cubbies and storage innovations give the guy a place to hide the pumps and cock rings he uses to try to make him look a little longer than a button in a fur coat.

So when you see a guy in a Cybertruck, you can rest assured that he has a very small penis - tiny, thin, stubby and likely highly dysfunctional.

And if you see a truck with the label ‘rough country’, you can be sure that this is a man who prefers to use the exit as an entrance.

Be afraid, be very afraid.

This is all a long winded explanation dear reader of the simple reality that not only do I judge books by their covers, women by their cats and men by their trucks.

This leads me to a moment of unintentional trolling.

One day at the campground there was a big, fancy new Ram 1500. It was red and almost shockingly hot. It was a bit over the top. I figured it belonged to my cousin’s husband.

There was something about the truck that just screamed his name to me.

So.

So then I run into my uncle and said: Who’s riding the fancy new bright red dildo?

There was. a moment of silence before my uncle replied: My daughter.

He was about as red as the raging ram boner parked in front of us.

I turned red just as quickly - though his pigment change was likely more a manifestation of rage versus my raging embarrassment.

I turned so red that I gave both my uncle and myself a sunburn from the inside.

Perhaps that would be a good job for a troll. Instead of offering the fake bake of tanning beds I could sell a flake bake internal tanning service.

People could come see me, I’d say some dumb shit and then blammo! They turn red forever.

But the real magic, dear reader? That wasn't the joke about the truck; that was the unintentional part. I wasn't trying to provoke my uncle or shame my cousin; I just saw a shiny red Ram 1500 and, based on my completely reasonable and perfectly relatable truck-as-penis theory, my brain served up "fancy new bright red dildo."

I mean, c’mon. You know me dear reader. How could I not make a fancy new dildo joke?

Intentional trolling is a practiced art. Poke. Prod. Look for the reaction and enhance your soul with the musky scent of discomfort.

It's a bit of a show. It requires effort.

But unintentional trolling?

That’s what we trolls call a natural.

A natural is a moment of raw power, that bypasses all the filters, all the self-censorship, all the polite lies you've built up over the years.

When you let lose a natural it’s a product of being yourself, in all your unfiltered, majestic shadowy glory, and having that accidentally collide with the unsuspecting civility of the world.

And that collision? It's magic.

It's more powerful than any planned provocation, and definitely more memorable – trust me, my cousin reminds me of the Great Dildo Incident of every damn time we speak.

Intentional offense is a pinprick; unintentional offense, sprung from the deep within your arsehole, is an internal wildfire, leaving everyone, including yourself, scorched crimson with embarrassment or rage.

So yeah, maybe the flake bake service is a no-go.

But the unintentional magic? That’s always on tap for any of us.

Just try walking through the parking lot of your local suburban grocery store now, dear reader. It's an urology convention on asphalt. And sometimes, when a big v-8 comes coal rolling along, I swear I can hear it whispering... He’s compensating.