Holmes

I guess it was inevitable I’d have to find something to shore up that eroding sense of self that accompanies having to switch to soft foods and failing to understand contemporary pop music, so my wife and I went out and bought me a new penis.

My old penis,  a  Chevy S-10, was not  technically a truck. Even though I used it to move our earthly belongings here from the old house,  only sheer exigency drove me to it. I remember vividly the pitch and yaw of the damned thing as I crept along the asphalt driveways they call roads in southern VA with an angry bovine tethered to the stake sides, trying to determine if she was going to smash through the left or right, or leap over the cab. She screamed and shat the entire trip, and by the time we got her here, she and the truck were so thoroughly spattered with it  I considered leaving her there for a couple days to let it dry. I still wish we’d brought her over after we moved the mattresses.

This is actually the truck I’ve been hoping to find for awhile. I wasn’t entirely certain such a vehicle existed. Usually the crew cabs I’ve seen have a short-bed. I was thrilled when this showed up on Craigslist. It met several criteria: long bed, crew cab, minimal plastic on the body, a heavy chassis, and a luxury interior:

It was cheap enough that I could replace the engine, the transmission, the brake system and get a new set of tires and still be in for only a quarter of the price of one of those new blobs of plastic. Sure,  it burns more gas than a WWII fighter plane, but now we’ll only have to drive to town once every three months. Yay!

Now all it needs are some decorative plates or decals that help me blend in with the locals, but have a sort of snooty “Go ahead, punch my lights out, cracker!” subtext.

So far this is what I got:

Deer hunting: One of the dumber ways to die.

Communism pays my bills.

If you can read this you’re not from around here.

Sheep farmers  have nasty STDs

The South will get its ass kicked again

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