If it’s not too late, I’d like to nominate my wife for Quote of the Year, which just happened to be the title of today’s blog entry. Her quote couldn’t have fit the time or place more perfectly than it did yesterday.
It was then when we decided to head on over to the Orange County Marketplace, better known to us as the Orange County swap meet. The swap meet takes place on the same property as the Orange County Fairgrounds which, when the fair is over, is home to many other events throughout the year.
When we arrived at the fairgrounds we were greeted by a large amount of traffic, but not just ordinary traffic. A majority of the vehicles were shiny Ford or Chevy trucks lifted at least five feet off the ground with gigantic off-road tires. Okay, maybe the five feet is a slight exaggeration, but they were all off the ground high enough to where one could easily squat underneath.
As we pulled into the lot, we figured out why there were so many I-need-to-compensate-for-my-tiny-manhood trucks in the area. A sign that read “Sand and Sea Expo” or something to that effect was posted at the entrance, and that’s where all these guys with wives/girlfriends whose skin looked like beef jerky were headed.
Not only did all of their trucks look alike in terms of J.C. Whitney aftermarket accessories that included cold-air intakes and trailer hitch covers embedded with beer bottle openers or had “Remove for River” emblazoned across them, all the guys themselves looked the same: not exactly in shape and wearing some sort of t-shirt or tank top with a speed shop graphic on the back, shorts, flip-flops, shoulder hair, and close-to-the-skull haircuts. In short, they looked like a crowd whose philosophy on life could have easily been adopted from a display at their local Big Dogs store.
Additionally, none of these fuckers could drive if their life depended on it as at least three of them almost ran us over in the parking lot.
And that, my friends, is when Ann blurted out this verbal gem, and my vote for Quote of the Year:
“All these guys look like dicks,” she calmly spouted as the last asshole in a lifted Nissan Titan nearly smacked into Anthony’s stroller. The driver waved apologetically. We kept walking without acknowledging him.
I began laughing at what she said and as I tried to re-gain my composure while taking Ann’s quote into consideration, upon further review by inspecting each and every passing couple heading into the expo, I couldn’t help but notice something–she was absolutely right. It was like some strange fraternity of mid-life crisis sufferers joining forces with 20-somethings struggling so badly for acceptance and identity that this was all they could find, and the one thing they had in common was drinking their collective ass off at the river.
And when I really think about it, I’m surprised we were allowed entry into the parking lot since 1) we were driving an SUV not a truck, and 2) it was absent of a trailer hitch with a funny cover.
But what matters most is we had a good time at the swap meet, despite the presence of guys formed from the giant dick-mold and their significant others with body parts made of plastic.
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