I call them truck nuts.
Wikipedia informs me that you may also know them as truck nutz, truck balls, BumperNuts, BumperBalls, CargoNads, Drive-thru Danglers, Trucksticles, HitchNuggets or Balls-on-a-truck.
Whatever you call them, it doesn’t change the fact that they rank as one of the dumbest creations in mankind’s history.
Yesterday, I was driving through the idyllic northeast Nebraska countryside on a pleasant spring morning. A window was down so I could feel the cool air blowing through my hair. Good tunes were pumping on the stereo. An occasional whiff of the Mexican food I was taking to the farm for my dad and me whetted my appetite.
All in all, it was a lovely scene — a lovely scene senselessly destroyed by a random pair of truck nuts.
I want you to imagine a painting. It’s you taking the mythical, liberating Great American Car Ride described above. Now, imagine the painter decides to play a cruel joke on the you in the painting. Suddenly, a stick is drawn, emerging from outside the frame. And from that stick is dangling a pair of testicles. Right in your face. In response to this intrusion, the artist adjusts your facial expression from one of relaxation and joy to one of confusion and horror.
I’m no expert at this, but how else does one respond to having a pair of balls suddenly thrust in his or her face?
So yes, I was driving along Highway 12 at a healthy, legal clip when my pace was slowed by a pokey pickup. And hanging from the rear of this pokey pickup was a pair of blue balls.
In addition, it was the pre-noon rush hour on this stretch of rural highway, meaning that vehicles were paced just frequently enough that I couldn’t put those balls in my rear-view mirror. No, I was stuck watching them dangle in front of me. For miles.
It made me angry.
I think perhaps the first time I ever saw a pair of truck nuts, I asked, “What the hell is that?”
And when I realized it was what it appeared to be, I probably chuckled a little chuckle.
But since that first moment of levity, my position on truck nuts has hardened into one of hatred.
Can’t we just let vehicles be their own asexual gender? Call it a “he” or “she.” Tommy the Truck. Karla the Car. Go for it. But there is no need to add human anatomy. Let these vehicles maintain some level of innocence and decency!
Usually, I spot truck nuts on a big truck driven by some dude who I assume is out to prove what a “man’s man” he is.
Does he ever stop to think about what is inferred by him riding around in (or on?) something adorned by male testicles?
If that’s the image he is trying to project, I certainly have no problem with him embracing that lifestyle. But I feel a man, gay or straight, has a general obligation to keep his testicles concealed while in public. And that goes for a man’s truck lover, too.
People put bras on the hoods of their vehicles. Maybe now manufacturers need to make jock straps for the people who believe their vehicles need nuts.
Should you decide to shed this veil of decency when taking your truck out, I’m going to assume you are some level of moron. I can’t help it.
So after having this particular moron dangle his truck nuts in my face for five minutes, I finally arrived at my turn.
It was a relief to kick those balls on down the highway.
I returned the focus to the joys of my car ride — the air, the music, the scent of food, the freedom — and tried to put the assault I’d just experienced far behind me.
Before you think about hanging a pair of BumperNuts on your vehicle, please remember my story and the many others like it — and then don’t do it.
This is one time where, if you heed my advice, you’ll be a better person for it.