By Sam’s-A-Fan

New York, NY

Civilization is over friends, or pretty damn near close to it. Yes, the end is near and there are signs, oh there are signs.

It is a sign, not that your civilization is in decline, but that its days are truly numbered when you have the best pitcher on the planet and you can’t even muster more than a single unearned run for him when he’s lights out.

Now there are other fans on this web site, a minority granted, but there are other fans on this site for whom the Mets are not first in their hearts. And to them the fact that in 6 starts the Mets have scored a total of 12 frickin’ runs for Johan Santana is not a sign, but nothing more than a dry stat and the reason Met fans are whining and crying like a bunch of little girls. For them I can offer other proof, incontrevertible proof, that that thing rushing up towards us at great velocity is rock bottom for our society and there ain’t nothing left to do but turn the lights out.

For your consideration I offer you up, TRUCK NUTZ! These novelty items billed as the ultimate automotive accessory came to my attention recently while watching The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, and amazingly enough his mere mention of them crystalized in my mind exactly what this next generation fake vomit actually is. Nevertheless I could not, no I would not, believe that this was now a thing, and so I determined to research this at my very first opportunity. That opportunity came my way yesterday afternoon, and I haven’t stopped shivering with despair ever since, because upon typing the words “Truck nuts” into the google search bar and hitting enter, I was immediately looking at a myriad of different web sites that offered “Truck nutz” and “Biker Ballz.” Other’s had “Bumper Nuts” and still others “Automotive Bull’s Balls.” Upon entering these sites you come face to…er…face with pictures of fake polyplastic scroti (or is that scrotums? Scrotusses?) hanging from the back of all manner of macho vehicles.

Now just hold on there Randy Levine! Before you go naked web surfing to outfit your stretch limo with the appropriate pin-striped junk, just take a minute to think about what this says about our culture and what kind of message this is sending to the rest of the world.

It’s fine for a man to drive a penis car when midlife sneaks up on him, his once taut physique now resembles a bosc pear and the part in his hair starts somewhere south of Tupelo, Mississippi. It is something else altogether if the insecurity of the American male has risen higher than unemployment and his self-image has sunk lower than the share price for GM, so much so that it is no longer enough to display his testosterone simply by driving a pick-up truck with an NRA sticker and a gun rack on it. He now needs to actually slap on some brightly colored (or natural if you prefer) faux juevos on his back bumper so that all those who drive behind him on the highways and byways of this once great nation of ours know what my poor dog Zeke felt like when he met and said hello (in the special way dogs do) to His Royal Highness Champion Marmaduke of Balls, Best in Show Great Dane three years running at Westminster, right after he came from that life altering trip to the vet.

And what of the poor kid from Malaysia who, for $0.17 a day works in the factory that produces America’s testicular pride? He gets up at four in the morning to walk eleven miles barefoot to a job that doesn’t even keep his family in rice and stale bread crusts so he can become stooped from malnutrition and the physical abuse of hauling crate after crate of latex sack, to ship to a morally bankrupt land that worships metallic gonads rather than a merciful god. Is it any wonder that this kid is going to want to strap some C4 to his chest and die a glorious death while taking as many infidels with him as possible?

And what of our daughters America? Was it not bad enough that driving over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house our daughters had to be assaulted through the years with the mudflaps of big rigs bearing the silhouette of the ideal female who makes Barbie’s physiognomy seem realistic and attainable? Did we need to add a pair of diamond plated ya-yas to the back of every F150 to hammer home the message that “This is what’s important to us young lady, and since you don’t have a snow balls chance in hell of ever owning a pair, well don’t you ever even bother to raise your hand in math class!”

Again I ask you, TRUCK NUTZ?!? Is this really a thing? Sadly it is, and I have seen the proof and it demonstrates to me that there is no doubt that we are all doomed. There had been other more subtle signs of the coming end of days; Angry Ward’s failure to win a Macarthur Genius Grant and the Matts continued snubbing by the main stream media, but Truck Nutz is the equivalent of “THE END” being written in 5000 foot high flaming letters in the sky.

I suggest that we all pray, pray to whatever deity you can find (I guess I can’t ask you to pray to the Church of Baseball now that Taller Matt has spat upon Bull Durham, another sign), pray that the end will be quick and painless, pray that archeologists from the future, perhaps from other worlds, will discover of our society some of the good things to go along with the non-biodegradeable pair of disco pink stones that will inevitably also be left behind. But also pray that the end doesn’t come before October, when the New York Mets will win the World Series behind the pitching of 2009 Cy Young Award Winner, Johan Santana!

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