As I approached the crosswalk, I could feel the vibration of bass [low musical tones, not fish] coming from a vehicle that had probably started life looking like this:
Now, the short bed pickup truck has never made a lot of sense to me. If one needed a truck, I assumed, one should have a truck that could carry more than a suitcase in its truck bed. But people like what people like, so it never occurred to me to say too much about it. I would tilt my head like a bemused collie and mutter, "Hmm..." under my breath and that was enough.
Today, however, I came face to face, or face to grill, with a vehicle that had started with the indignity of the short bed and then had the added humiliation of the overexuberant application of chrome to nearly every available surface. That which was not chromed was painted an eye-searing orange which shimmered in different colors with changes in position. The wheels, or rims I'm told is the correct name for these, gleamed like expensive, albeit tacky jewelry in the early spring sunshine. The nearly microscopic outline of black tire only highlighted their fabulosity. This vehicle reminded me of nothing more that one of those baby beauty pageant contestants, tarted up beyond all recognition.
As I gazed at this ridiculous trucklet and its surely proud-as-punch driver, all I could think was...
Oh, sweetie. Your penis is fine.