Balls

Now that Daniel is with his father for the weekend (the regularly scheduled weekend thing), I am taking a break from the obsessing of the events of this week.

So what do I do?

I say the word, "balls," like, a thousand times.

It's not all my fault. See, there was this truck. With homemade. silver. balls. dangling. from the hitch on the back. Two.

It was this chain with two silver-colored balls dangling, and bouncing, and gyrating as the truck drove ahead of us.

Balls.

Much to Mike's chagrin, so began the spouting:

Do you love those balls?
Those are some mighty fine balls.
Wow, those balls dangle pretty low.
Honey, do you see the shiny balls?
Man, he must really love his balls.
Have you ever seen such a ballsy truck?
I love balls. Shiny ones.
Don't you wish you had metal balls?
I wish you had metal balls.
clang! clang! clang!!
Hell, I wish I had metal balls!
What kind of balls do you think that guy has, you know, to feel he needed to add them to the truck?
Can we put balls on the minivan?
Please?
Dammit.
Can we put balls on my (tiny, tiny) car?
Fabulous!
Do his balls interfere with hauling stuff?
Mike. Look. At. His. Balls.
I bet they come in gold.
Ohh, I bet I could get them in marble.
Marble balls. Fantastic.
I like his balls, but I want mine a tad more petite, you know because I'm a girl.
Ooooh! What about oversized, shiny, metal ovaries?
Perfect.

Then everyone will know how much of a tool I am.

Seriously, if I am describing your truck, you are a tool.