The life of a troll is rough. Our ultimate goal—we subterranean, bridge-dwelling misfits—is to regularly shove our fingers up the arse end of civil morality for our own twisted pleasure.
Sometimes, though, the universe decides we aren’t working fast enough. Sometimes, we become offensive completely by accident.
But before we get to my moment of supreme campground humiliation, we need a scientific framework. Let us establish The Grand Unified Theory of Trucks.
Trucks are not merely vehicles. They are massive, rolling metal projections of human compensation.
My truck—a rusted, stinky, highly functional ‘93 GMC Sierra—is rough around the edges, durable as hell, and has a rock-solid frame.
It is a direct, honest projection of how I see myself—and my penis.
(hi mom)
But these new trucks? They are fancy and overpowered.
The’ve got touchscreens and sensors.
At their core?
They’re highly sensitive.
Trucks these days make a massive amount of noise, but they aren’t built to actually get a dirty job done.
New truck drivers have fancy gilded penises.
In the 20’s we had art deco gilded age architecture.
Now, we roll around in steel and plastic doily dinks
Go to any suburban McDonald’s or hardware store parking lot on a Saturday morning. There you will see a man with a backwards ball cap, a beard, and a giant truck with 22-inch flared fenders and air intakes all over the hood.
And that’s a pretty little man in a pretty little truck that’s seen about as much mud as an arsehole’s seen the sunshine.
That truck is a four-wheel-drive monument to a Viagra addiction.
All those endless little storage compartments?
Places you can stick things.
Oh baby. I can stick it in ya. Water bottle? I’ll stick it in here. Sippy cup in here. Ohhh babeeee.
New trucks are for pornstars and perverts.
And the touch screen and digital zoom on the back up camera? Those are there so a man can make his unit look slightly larger than a button in a fur coat.
If you spot a guy driving a Cybertruck, you can rest assured his penis is a tragic affair—tiny, thin, stubby, and highly dysfunctional.
But you know the poor bastard waxes his balls.
Right?
All that slick stainless steel wreaks of a man with silky smooth testes.
And if you see a truck displaying a “Rough Country” decal, you are looking at a man who prefers to use the exit as an entrance.
But if it’s on a 3500 with a six inch lift kit? Exit? Entrance? That don’t matter. A truck like that goes where ever the hell it damn well wants to.
This is how my brain works. I judge books by their covers, women by their cats, and men by their tailpipes. Which brings us to the campground.
One humid Saturday afternoon, a brand-new Ram 1500 rolled in. It was bright, raging red, shockingly hot, and completely over the top.
My filtered, civilized brain immediately shut down. I was convinced it belonged to my cousin’s husband.
So, when I ran into my uncle standing near the store, I gestured toward the truck and blurted out, loud enough for the neighboring campsites to hear:
“Who’s riding the fancy new bright red dildo?”
A heavy, horrifying silence fell over the campground. My uncle—a quiet, respectable man—turned as red as the raging Ram boner parked in front of us. He looked me dead in the eye and slowly said:
“My daughter.”
I turned so red, so fast, that I gave both myself and my uncle a severe sunburn from the inside.
(I call this the “Flake Bake”. I’m thinking of launching it as an alternative tanning service. People can pay me fifty bucks, I’ll say something deeply inappropriate to them, and blammo—they turn crimson forever.)
But the magic here wasn’t the joke itself. It was the absolute, unfiltered lack of intent. My brain, operating on pure, un-sanitized urological-asphalt logic, bypassed twenty-four years of therapy training and served up “bright red dildo”.
It could have been worse.
But dear reader, I know that my cousin reads this as well and there is nothing else I could write here that wouldn’t get me completely uninvited to every campfire from now until the sun eventually dies.
So, at this point dear reader, I will hold my tongue.
But, the next time you walk through a crowded grocery store parking lot, you won’t see cars. You’ll realize you are walking through a urology convention on asphalt. And when a massive V-8 comes coal-rolling past you, you’ll hear it whispering:
He’s compensating...
