I was told, shortly after arriving in Murray, that I should keep my eyes peeled for something on the back of trucks. “Just keep your eyes open, Kelly, You’ll know it when you see it.”

Well, I’m shipping out on Sunday and I’ve seen nothing on the back of a truck except for a license plate. Curious, I recently asked exactly what I was supposed to be looking for…

Well. Um. Eh. — Balls.     Like testicles.      Fake testicle balls, hanging from the backbottom of a truck.

I consider discourse on the matter, but that degree of regard seems ridiculous. I can’t understand the phenomenon. I will never be able to. Don’t need to. Don’t want to. And I’m (*I think) glad I didn’t see them.

I was walking with a friend one morning when I spotted a beautiful specimen of the canine kind. “Wowww….,” I signed. “What a beautiful body he has!”

“My god!, Kel” — my (male) friend exclaimed! — “That’s a little weird; it’s like you’re checking out dogs.”

“No I’m not, jackass,” I replied. “I just love seeing the differences in the breeds’ builds and enjoy how you can know a little bit about a dog’s personality from their body and the way it moves.”

Oh  y e a h….  Oh yeah. Oh yeah! Look at THAT DOG!!, he ribbed. “Look at THOSE BALLS! You could set your watch to the swing of those balls.”

Maybe that’s it. Maybe these southern men set their watches to the swing of the balls on the truck in front of them, as it barrels down the country road.


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