He appeared in my rearview, a roaring black monster of chrome and fresh-washed paint, gunning near my bumper while I mumbled something to the radio about over-compensation. At the first opportunity he flew past me, dragon wings slapping me in a powerful rip-wind that buffed and knocked, gliding back across the solid yellow with strange, masculine grace and shooting down Highway 6 - a violent shadow disappearing over the Allan Park hill. But not before I saw his business. And by his business I mean the testicles that hung from the trailer hitch, bouncing in spring winds and potholes as he bee-lined from my offense. I think I have a good, well-rounded sense of humor. I enjoy irony and sarcasm and witty banter. This is tasteless and revolting. Has a woman ever stuck plastic breasts to her Volvo's headlights?
Part of me wanted to follow him home. Know where he tucked his token manhood to sleep. Sneak back at night in full ninja gear and jackknife and castrate that poor truck right there in his driveway.
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