Monday, October 16, 2006

All I have in this world are my balls and my words.

Casson Demmon in response to my last blog about my Mustang:
What year is that?
I thought you were going to get a fixer upper, you got a fixted upted for sure.
I bought an old car too, I went for less power, its the slowest thing I've ever driven. Long, loaded down trucks flex on me because they know they have better acceleration.
Is this our version of an early midlife crisis? Should we get some hairplugs and start working out?



Look Pal,
A man gets married. Things are good. Then, the wife gets pregnant. Things start to really move. In my case, I was driving an '78 Mini Cooper when my wife got preggo. We had the kid and then it was the countdown till we got a new vehicle. Sure enough, Luther found out how to use his legs, and soon he could kick me in the back of the head from his little seat in the back of the Mini. It was time to move on. All around me were the hints and the proddings that I should get a minivan. That I should just reach into my pants with a boxcutter in lefty and slash my bag open, find the cords and saw my testicles off. I didn't want to clip my balls off. I didn't want to be a soprano driver. I wanted to live! Hey man...I like my nuts.

When I was a kid in Canada, some other kid told me that an ancient chinese torture was to cut your nuts off. That you would die instantly once they were clipped. That story haunts me to this day. It haunted me at that very minivan considering point of my life, and I wasn't about to have the bells slashed and tossed into a garbage disposal. No freaking way.

There is only one thing worse than a man with his balls in a garbage disposal because he is driving around in a mini-van. That is the man who uses the mini-van for his own transportation outside of his wife and kids. Any male who is rolling around (I don't care if he is going to the 7-11 for Similac) he had BETTER NOT DRIVE IN THAT MINIVAN without a passenger that demonstrates his need to use the minivan. This is the kind of man who has lost his member as well as the balls. The pork and the beans...GONE.

I was totally screwed. We had no income for a second vehicle, so we had to make the family vehicle COUNT. It had to count like Luke Skywalker's only photon torpedo shot at the Death Star. I couldn't risk the potential "driving around by myself in the minivan" scenario. I have some dignity. I have pride. I like my nuts. I didn't want people looking at me like I had once been a man. FOK THAT.

So I made the move on a Volkswagen Westfalia. VW Campervan does not equal a minivan. A VW van has class. It says "counterculture". It says, "I am going somewhere, and you aren't invited". It says "Woodstock". It says "Germany". It says "naptime". It also says "You are never in a hurry". In a lot of ways, it also says "FOK JOO". I won my battle against the minivans. Many nutless individuals that I know have not won this battle. Their balls pack the garbage disposals of motor city like some sort of vulgar egg factory getting ready to make a seriously compromised omlette. The switches are thrown once every two minutes in America. Every two minutes, a minivan is sold, and if you listen to the open air outside your office, you can hear testicles bouncing against the blades as water rushes down the sink. You can hear the balls getting flayed, shredded, wounded and sliced. You can hear the loss of manhood if you listen hard enough.

Huevos Rancheros, my friends.

Checkitout: Men who drive minivans have been neutered. This is an absolute. Furthermore, they KNOW that they have been neutered. There is no defense that they can offer in regards to this cold-hearted FACT. The duty of the rest of the males (with nuts intact) in their lives is not to remind the neutered males too often that their balls are in the fakking garbage disposal and the switch is still flipped and the blades are still chewing. There is a self-loathing that is involved here too. What man in his right mind pays big money to have his jewels torn from under his pudendum to be thrashed to bits in the whirling attack of a heartless, metal bitch? I have known such men. Stupid men. Men with no understanding of the phallic representation that the vehicle he drives carries. Men who traded in their hyper-phallic 4X4 vehicles for a mangina on thin tires.

Let's think more about this poor joe. Let's think about this pathetic sot, who cut off his own balls and dropped them in a garbage disposal because that was the only solution he could think of to move his family around. This sorry bastard will go for ten to twenty years driving around in a vehicle that states to all "testes-free". What a sorry lout. What a sucker. What a fokking she-male.

The most cynical part about this whole thing is that the bitches at the top of the auto industry know this. They sit around and make fun of the consumers. They say in their little closed door, donut and coffee meetings things like this:
"What is the ugliest fokking vehicle we can foist on the working family man?"
and
"How can we laugh at a fool for paying us twenty grand and feel good about it?"

Their aim is to make this misshapen castrati hungry. They know that if he buys a bland, no flavor having box with a name like "Voyager" that sooner or later, if this man ever returns from his nutless, zombie state, he will be a consumer FOR REALS. He will strap himself down with some serious debt to prove to all the men around him that he indeed has nuts, and that these nuts still work.
The auto industry tycoons' aim is to make this androgen want like nothing else to purchase a sports car. A car that he can ride down the street in and motherfuckers like myself won't point at him and yell things like, "Your nutsack is like a deflated balloon!"
So when that low-down sonofabitch finally clears, and the car seats are out and his kids can open and close doors by themselves and there isn't a steady trail of Cheerios behind him or in every last one of his jacket pockets, he makes a move on a different car.

Motherfuckers (not me, I understand the male desire to preserve/regenerate balls) step to this guy who is in his late forties or early fifties and they wonder why he picked up that sporty new vehicle. Why is he suddenly behind the wheel of a Corvette Stingray with the same sharktoothed hood that Mark Hammil had back in Corvette Summer? Why is this mildly paunchy, no fashion sense having father of the year suddenly rocking the Mustang? The Viper? The Challenger? The Dodge 300?

HE IS SIMPLY TRYING TO REGENERATE HIS BALLS.

Society calls this "having a mid-life crisis" and a bunch of other trash. That is all bullshit. This issue has been going on as long as I have been alive. Back when I was a kid, I would see these pathetic-assed fathers trolling around in station wagons with the wood paneling (no offense Dad, you get a pass here). The minivan is the same damn thing, only modern. We all laugh. We all snicker and we all know that someone is missing their balls.

So, Casson, in response to your statement: NO. I am not having a mid-life crisis. I never lost my balls in the first place.