Mud flaps of death

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My husband has his own truck now. Well, the bank has his truck, they allow us to make exorbitant payments on it and drive it. Owning a truck is a huge expense, but it allows more freedom to the driver (if you call being a slave to a truck payment freedom). He can put all the pretty little doo-dads on it he wants, and we spend a lot of time looking at pretty doo-dads.

Truckers are weird about their trucks. The dirtiest looking driver on the road will have a spotless, shining rig. The machine is an extension of their personality, a public edifice of their private thoughts.

The oldest and most recognized of doo-dads are mud flaps with silhouettes of reclining naked women in chrome on them. Everyone knows this symbol, the flowing hair, giant tits, teeny waist and ample hips beckoning from underneath a trailer are the closest thing to a trademark truckers have. Recently, we saw the same image, only instead of a teeny waist there was a big belly and ample hips continued down to thunder thighs.

We were looking at accessories in one of the many truck stops we visited along the way, and once again, he pointed out the mud flaps.

“You’re really going to get those, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m going to get the fat girl ones so I can represent.”

After I recovered from the stinging blow, I chose my words carefully.

“What exactly are you going to represent with fat girl mud flaps?”

The look on my face (and the fact that I may have screamed a little when asking the question) immediately alerted him to his gigantic, enormous, boneheaded faux pas.

“I didn’t mean…”

“Why don’t we just get shirts made up? ‘I’m with fatass’ and an arrow pointing towards me?”

“You’re not a….”

“Oh, even better. You can just have ‘My wife is HUGE’ airbrushed on the side of your truck.”

“I was talking about…”

“I think you should stop talking. Forever.”

“You’re not a fatass. Let’s go get a frappe.”

“Um. No. I’ll not be eating anything other than grass and sticks for the next four years.”

“I hate to point this out, but cows eat grass.”

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“Wow. You don’t know when to quit, do you? Let’s just go to the truck. I’m feeling bulimic. Let’s see how the inside of your precious truck looks covered in vomit.”

“I have a feeling it’s going to be a long, quiet ride.”

“I have a feeling that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said all day.”

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