They were blue. They were testicles. And they were huge. They swung from the pickup truck in front of us.
“I’m going to call him,” I said, “and tell him that his blue moose nuts make me sick.”
I picked up my phone and started to dial the number on the tailgate decal advertising a tree-trimming service.
“Are you really calling him?” Annie asked. I showed her the “calling” screen on my phone.
“Yep, I’m going to tell him how unprofessional blue moose nuts are and how I would never use his service because of them.”
She tried to talk me out of it. I didn’t listen. But when the first ring rang I pictured the fella answering his phone, turning around to look out the back window, spitting out his wad of tobacco and doing one of two things: backing his jacked up pickup truck up and onto our tiny Chevy Cavalier so his moose nuts knock up against our windshield, or throwing his truck into park, hopping out and trying to whoop me right there on McGalliard Street.
Before the second ring I had determined that calling him wasn’t a good idea. Maybe I’m stereotyping here, but I doubt a fella that would hang blue moose nuts from his bumper would take kindly to having his truck and/or truck accessories criticized.
I hung up.
Twenty minutes later my phone rings. I answer.
“Who is this?” It was Blue Moose Nuts! I was taken aback by the bluntness, the disregard for any social etiquette, and the WTF-tone.
“Who is THIS?” I said with a bit of a chip on my shoulder.
“You try calling me?”
This was the moment that I could tell him what I thought of his big blue moose nuts. Annie was looking at a children’s book in TJ Max and turned to listen with interest. I thought of the man’s children and how they were sitting at home counting the days until Christmas. How they hoped Dad came home soon so they could show him the bike that they hoped he would tell Santa about. I thought about how me offering my opinion on his moose nuts would probably really piss him off and put him in no mood for Christmas wishes.
I also thought it probably wasn’t a great idea to harass a man skilled with a chainsaw.
“Oh,” I stumbled, “I’m sorry, I must’ve dialed a wrong number.”
There’s a reason I don’t have big blue moose nuts swinging from the bumper of any of my vehicles.