Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Primal neanderthalian testosterone fueled instinct

My hubby's got a big honkin' Dodge truck with a big honkin' hemi engine.  It's a nice powerful truck for towing motorcycles or hauling stuff.

The other night we were stopped at a stoplight when a zippy little hopped up car pulls up alongside him at the light.  I was reading so I wasn't overly paying attention.  The next thing I know he stomped on the gas took off like a bat out of hell and I was slammed bag in my seat.

"What the . . . ??"

Apparently, the other driver offered some kind of challenge; either real or imagined, I can't say for certain.  Reacting to a primal neanderthalian testosterone fueled instinct, hubby felt some sort of necessity to squash this threat an act of guerillian chest pounding.

Within something like half a second we were flying along and he was impressively out pacing that little matchbox car on steroids.  Okay . . . I admit that I wasn't particularly impressed but he was obviously all full of himself.

He was all like, "Come on, you don't think it's cool that my big truck can out run a sportscar?"

"Yes dear, very cool,"  With nary a hint of sarcasm.  The. I was like, "Honey, you're not a kid anymore.  Do you really need to be racing other cars?"

He said, "It's not about how old I am, it's about being a man."

"Uh huh, yeah, okay."  I heaved a sigh I went back to my book.


The next day my boss and I were chatting so I asked him, "You're a man, right?"

He was like, "Uhm, yeah, the last time I checked."

I told him the racing story and he said sometimes he liked to blow other cars away, too.  

Sheesh . . . men are so weird!

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