Truck nuts

An image is worth a thousand words. A thousand cuss words, that is. The only consolation about staring at these ballsacs while stuck in traffic is getting to see the sac of shit driving the monster truck when you finally pass him and leave his bumper nuts in the dust.

Dude is seriously compensating. Like John Bobbit compensating.

Maybe I’m picking on low-hanging fruit here but I believe the person who hangs testicles from his trailer hitch is a massive tool with a tiny dick. That’s the only reason I can imagine showcasing such nutty behavior.

I’m confident in saying that the testes are the most precious of boy parts, the Achilles Heel of the groin region. A well-placed soccer ball or knee can fell a man and turn him temporarily into a helium-sucking castrato. So why in the name of Cisco Adler’s balls would you leave these swaying in the wind? You're just inviting any civilized person to rear end yo’ ass and crack those nuts. Kick these plastic nads to the curb before you get punched in your actual hairy cherries.

(photo: 67-72chevytrucks.com) 

Family car stickers

Wow, you’re a family? Get out! I would never have guessed that you have a full house by the minivan you’re driving.

The decal equivalent of a “Life Is Good” t-shirt or Vera Bradley backpack, customized family stickers are just another way to crow about your awesome functional family. Honestly, wouldn’t a holiday photo with matching red sweaters do the trick?

Maybe it’s just that my ovaries have gone to seed, but this 2.0 version of a Baby on Board sign isn’t going to engender warm, fuzzy feelings in me. Rather, this smug stick figure art makes me want to stick something else to this family, namely a bumper sticker over your two-dimensional family that reads GANG OF BORE.

(photo: familystickers.com)

Panel vans

Is it just me, or does everyone steer clear of panel work vans?

Okay, it's just me.

My ability to park properly is dangerously hampered, as images of dismembered body parts dance before my eyes (and not in a kitschy, zombie party kind of way).

And if I spot a loner white male sporting a cast and attempting to load a sofa into the back of the van, I stay in the car, back not-so-slowly away, using my hands-free headset to call the local police department so it can run the numbers on the mud-caked license plate. If you are the owner of one of these psychopathfinders, please do me a solid and paint your phone number on the windowless sliding door. It will make tracking you down much, much easier.

(photo: carsignspro.com)

TIWTPITF: The Indian version

TIWTPITF goes international today. My friends Kathy and Dustin have been traveling through India and have compiled the following list of things they want to punch in the bindi. Namaste.

1. Indian light switches. You have to press them in a counter-intuitive way to turn them on, they're not marked so half of them do nothing, and there are a million switches on one plate. Well, maybe 8. But we counted 38 switches just in our room. You can't just plug something into an outlet. You have turn the switch to the outlet on. Otherwise, you'll be charging your camera battery for 8 hours and it won't do a damn thing.

2. Amul Butter. This is a popular company (and probably a monopoly). The butter comes in little single serving packages—you know, like at the pancake house. They're on the table for breakfast. The only thing is you can never open the fucking things. Wouldn't you think that the design to open them would be a no brainer? Usually one of the servers comes over and opens it for me. The helpless American.

3. Car horns. Obviously there is no regulation. They all sound differently: duck quacks, farts, musical, and screeching. It's the last that is the most horrible, especially when you're riding in an open tuk tuk and the horn blowing maniac is right next to you. They show no restraint or control.

Dangerously polite motorists

Scene: An outrageously hip woman (i.e. me) is waiting to cross the street mid-block. She’s waiting patiently, scouting out traffic to her left and right. She sees an opening after the next two cars to her left. Suddenly, the first car on her left brakes and motions for her to cross the street.

Guess what the pedestrian does?

She ducks for cover! Because the driver behind that braking car slams on HIS brakes and narrowly avoids rear-ending the polite bonehead. Plus, she’s slightly chagrined to be drawing all this vehicular attention when she was perfectly happy to wait until the traffic cleared.

And...SCENE.

I’ve wanted to punch these menaces to motorized society for a long time. Dumbasses are so busy looking forward through their windshield that they fail to look in their rear-view mirror at the pile-up they could potentially be creating. I’m not in any hurry. I’m not jogging in place or fidgeting. I’m clearly lazy; otherwise, I’d be trotting to the corner and jaywalking against the light within the white lines of the crosswalk.

When these Fail Earnharts slow for me, I want to reach through the open driver’s side window, grab the back of their head, and slam it against the dashboard, replicating the impact they’ll feel if the motorist behind them isn’t paying attention and rams into their mookmobile. That’s what I call driver’s ed.

What seemingly polite gesture do you want to smack the shit out of?

(photo: kentuckyaccidentnews.com)

City carriages

While I’m not crazy about them, I can cope with seeing a quaint carriage rolling along a dappled Central Park path or through a tiny town’s historical festival. But when I’m on a bus that’s buzzing by a horse-drawn carriage that’s clopping along in the summer heat, pulling blithe tourists pointing out the Hard Rock Café, my heart sinks.

I don't mean to nag but horses and Hummers should not be sharing the roads. I cough up a black lung in the summer when I’m walking around an urban center for just an afternoon. I can only imagine what equine lungs inhale when Nelly is continually staring down the end of a exhaust pipe. Unless you plan on putting a surgical mask over her muzzle Michael Jackson style, she shouldn’t be pounding the pavement. I may not be a horse whisperer but I can hear her silent screams loud and clear.

(photo: latopdog.blogspot.com)

Vanity plates

Personalized license plates are NOTSOGR8 in my book. In fact, IH8EM. The vehicular equivalent of the tattoo, what sort of 6 or 8-letter phrase are you going to slap on your SUV’s ass to define yourself? Seinfeld’s ASSMAN is ASSIN9, in my humble opinion. A lot of the plates are pretentious and blowhardian in nature (0-60IN4 or WISHURME), some—clearly owned by Stifler’s peeps—are downright grody (8 ER OUT? Really, Illinois? Really?). There’s a ginormous motor home sporting “GLBL WMR” which should really say “I M PRBLM”. Some unoriginal chuckleheads are using online acronyms—if you are ROTFL, who’s driving the car? I’m not rolling on the floor, dude. I’m right behind you, willing myself not to rear-end you in hopes of denting your metal tramp stamp.

My friends in Delaware will pay upwards of five figures for one of the rare black low-numbered plates. They view it as an investment and a status symbol. This sort of boggles my mind, especially when they tell me how much the single digit plates go for (the number “6” plate went for $675,000 in 2008). What kind of vehicle deserves to host that sort of marquee plate? Is there a place for it on Air Force 1’s vertical stabilizer?

I suppose a vanity plate is a way to show off without shelling out buttloads of clams. There is one plate that I can get behind, both on and off the road. A hearse’s plate that reads “U R NEXT.” Yep, buddy, you are. Because I M GUNIN 4U.

If you were forced to get a vanity plate, what would it be?

(photo: coolpl8z.com)

Duck tours

Hopefully, you live in a landlocked area, mercifully free of bodies of water and the crap they attract. I’m not talking about guano. I’m talking about those daffy Duck tours.

Originating in Boston, these city tours tote hapless visitors around in amphibious vehicles, showing them the city by land and sea.

I can deal with the concept: repurposing military DUKWs for sightseeing excursions is kind of brill. It’s the execution I want to execute. The graphics are cheeseball, the out-of-work comedians who double for tour conDUCKtors definitely do not quack me up, and the music they play makes me want to tenderize Disco Duck with a giant glitter ball.

If that wasn’t enough to make my eyes and ears bleed, the Ducks incessantly quack as they drive around town, which makes it pretty miserable to live or work on their route. I know; I’ve been there.

If these motherduckers migrate to your town, be sure to flip them the bird.

(photo: bu.edu/comet/explore-boston)

GPS addicts

“What are you doing?”
“I’m putting the restaurant we’re going to into my GPS.”
“Um…it’s a half-mile down this road.”

Shuttle and cab drivers, go crazy with the positioning systems. Maybe the route from the airport won’t be quite as circuitous (and therefore expensive) with some help from above. On a long road trip, go ahead and bust it out. See, I’m all for things that make life easier. But some geographically challenged chumps seem to be using GPS to find their own ass.

You’ve lived in this neighborhood for years, Lostco de Gama. You don’t seem as if you’ve suffered a crushing blow to the head resulting in temporary global amnesia. So why on earth do you turn to a bossy machine to get anywhere and everywhere? Why do you require assistance to drive in a straight line, Christopher Coldumbass? High school geometry must have been a real bitch. Word problems probably sent you into the fetal positioning system.

Why do you need a disembodied automaton with an Australian accent to tell you what to do? That’s what a dominatrix is for, duh. And I’m right here in the passenger seat, ready and willing to tell you where to get off, if you get my drift.

(Photo: german-way.com)

Parking hogs

You know them. Chances are, you want to punch these selfish fucks in the face (or shatter their windshields with that baseball bat you happen to keep in the trunk for “emergencies”). I’m talking about the asscaps who park their precious car/truck/SUV/crotch rocket/shitbox caboose over several parking spots. I suspect they want to avoid any damage from neighboring car doors. I got news for you and your insurance provider: splaying your vehicle across several spots is only going to draw attention to it, and not in any kind of good way.

I have the same violent feelings about this parking violation as I do about people who hate to park their car on the street instead of a garage, or are scared to drive it into the big bad city. If you are that worried about your ride, you prolly shouldn’t take it out of the cul de sac, or you shouldn’t own it at all.

But maybe you have a different reason for flunking your driving test on a daily basis. Perhaps you’re visually challenged. Maybe your first name starts with N and you’re trying to create a capital N with your Nissan by joining the ends of the painted lines. Guess what? N is also for Nimrod, Nincompoop, and ‘Nads. Maybe you’re playing a giant game of Connect Door. And in case you are confused, that line in front of you is not a guide for centering your Hummer.

Get your OCD on and make it a challenge NOT to touch either line, instead of straddling it like Brooke Hogan on a mechanical bull. If you keep it up, I’m going to go all Kathy Bates on you and get jiggy with the parking piggy, regardless of whether you are in the lot of the Piggly Wiggly or a parking garage. I’m going to drive up your insurance premiums when I smash into your beloved Beemer from whatever angle you’ve provided me with. And if that doesn’t do the trick, I’m going to really go Kathy Bates on you and get out the sledgehammer. I’ll make sure you’re not driving or parking anything but a wheelchair anytime soon.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/agentakit/2821154238/)

Shoulder harnesses

This one is for the ladies (or men with moobs). As I may have mentioned before, I have a healthy rack and every time I strap myself into a car, I am tortured by the shoulder harness. Talk about an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, the shitaceous strap never falls across my chest properly. It never, ever stays between my tatas. Instead of crossing in a straight diagonal line the way it should, it mashes one of my girls or it rides up so that the edge of the strap chafes my neck and puts me in a stranglehold. Sometimes—before I lose consciousness—I pull the harness up and over my head, so my seatbelt is the only thing holding me in and I feel like I’m in my dad’s old Dodge Charger, doing up safety old-school. I sit back against the strap until a collision propels me forward and my bladder bursts and my nose cracks against the dashboard. Nice work, car designers.

To wrap up this Saab story, I want to lash car engineers in the face with my shoulder harness for overlooking something so obvious that half of the driver’s license-carrying population winds up with road rash without ever actually hitting pavement. Next time, try designing a car with a double-D crash test dummy in the driver’s seat. Just a thought.

(photo: toledoonthemove.com)

Punch Bowl Winners' Circle: Slow drivers in the fast lane

What IS it with people who haven't yet acclimated to freeway travel? Freeways have been around for awhile, now. But by some hideous stroke of fate I am continually met with drivers for whom acceptable freeway behavior is a complete fucking mystery. If these maroons don't want to drive over 40, WHY do they even get on!?

I'm driving home from Torrance, which is 45 minutes of hell in itself, and things are going pretty well because it's still mid-day and it's a holiday weekend so a lot of people are home getting over bad decisions from the previous night, so I'm tooling along, pretty happy with myself. Which, apparently, can only be conveyed in a run-on sentence.

We're coming up on a series of transitions. You know, the 91 to the 605 to the 60 to the river Styx—those ubiquitous transitions which make the Los Angeles Freeway System one of the eight wonders of the world, just after wrestling togs.

So, I'm driving in the number-one lane as usual, because I can manage to drive 70 and think at the same time. In my peripheral view, I notice someone moving systematically from the number four lane inward. And I'm thinking, hey, this guy's gotta take the transition to the 60. It's clear that the guy is kind of on the inept side, but he's probably trying to time it right and doesn't really intend to slow everyone down and make a complete ass of himself.

So I withhold judgment, because it is my way.

As expected, he insinuates himself into my lane several cars ahead. We have to slow a bit, but hopefully, he'll be onto the 60 soon and thus, someone else's problem. But the transition to the 60 comes and goes, and he's still sitting here, in my and everyone else's way, in the FAST LANE. And I'm now going 63 instead of 70, because the drivers in front of me have had to slow down to 67 and 65, respectively.

Now. I'm. Officially.

Getting Pissed Off.

Look, Fuckwipe, WHY are you in the fast lane going 60? I was having a relaxing Sunday drive, glancing leisurely now and then at the passing scenery of snarled transition roads and haze. Now, I'm painfully reminded yet again that the L.A. gene pool has receded to Neanderthalian depths. My speedometer is sinking steadily toward 50, as you, in your epic cluelessness, settle into the fast lane, take out your blankie, and prepare for a long fucking nap.

In the midst of this foray into feebleness, we hear multiple Harleys rapidly gaining on us and then passing us as we snail along into oblivion. But my blood pressure is going faster than they are. And just as I’m about to do what the three drivers ahead of me have been forced to do, which is to change lanes and go around this loser, two cop cars approach in the number-two lane behind us with berries flashing, and the traffic compresses further.

Well, now it's all over. Mr. Troglodyte becomes startled by the noise and pretty flashing colors, so he slows to Mercury-in-retrograde. The rest of us have to break as quickly as it is safe to do so, which causes everyone else to break, which causes me to lose sight in one eye. Maybe it's a stroke or something. I'm about to lose valuable depth perception because of this tragic waste of spermatozoa.

Dear Troggy; Do you not realize that the Harleys are now in the slow lane, and the cops are in the slow lane behind them, and two lanes separate those of us in the fast lane from the criminals in the slow lane? Do you not see this? I know you must see this, because your head is continually snapping 90 degrees to the side and back, watching other people doing things that don't involve you, as you creep toward the next transition.

Which happens to be MY transition.

I have despaired of ever seeing home again. I’m going to be forced to drive behind Chromehead onto the transition, around the curve from the 605 to the 210, and merge with traffic at a much faster prevailing speed, which will further challenge Trog's already tasked reasoning abilities and likely cause a complete systematic shut-down and certain death. The transition approaches, and I wonder if I've forgotten to put my gun back into the glove compartment.

Troggy, I know you are the center of YOUR lane of peaceful, untroubled existence, but, clue in, Lameass: those cops are not concerned with you! They are currently busy! And there are other worlds besides yours, vehicles in motion, in service toward actually getting somewhere before the Apocalypse.

Oh, to have you alone, you of the low brow and prognathous jaw. Oh, to be in a bulletproofed, soundproofed room with you and Jack Bauer.

—Chris, Prism Trail

The number-one request I’ve gotten from people is to punch the living crap out of slow drivers and send them back to driver’s ed where they belong. Clearly and unfortunately, Chris’s tale of slow is something we can all relate to.

(Photo: flickr.com/photos/girlwithgreencard/2332058492/)

PT Cruisers

Drive one of these and you’re basically PT crusin for a bruisin. Trying to recapture the flavor of the American Graffiti era (or a ZZ Top video), this wannabe retro ride looks more like a clown car worthy of PT Barnum. As Billy Joel once put it, the good old days weren’t always good.

I don’t know about you, but back in the day, cruising the Fairplain Plaza in my hometown was a sign we had pretty much given up. Cruising was not an activity to be remembered fondly; it was boredom in motion. Whether in a sweet-ass low-rider or a shitbox caboose, we were on a road to nowhere. Some still are.

A lot of rental agencies are handing out PT Cruisers to unsuspecting travelers. Slide those keys back across the counter, my sharp-dressed man, even if it means driving a crapass beater. Every time I spy one of these—usually in a pussy color like plum—I start to overheat. In a PT Loser, you’re asking to get rear-ended, and not in a good way. If you insist on bopping around town in this moving violation, get ready for a head-on collision with my fist.

This abomination looks like the bizarre love child of a VW bug and mini-van. Natural selection will eventually weed these mutations out of the automotive food chain, but I’m going to lend a helping hand. With a tire iron, I will wipe that stupid smile off the grill and hood. Since you're so effing sweet, I'm sure you won't mind if I pour some sugar in your gas tank. And now that you've made me so nostalgic, I'm going to unleash my inner bored teenager and plaster your exterior with a few dozen eggs. I've got eggs, and I know how to use them.

(photo: infomotori.com)