Contrary to popular opinion about men being "hung" more so than others, the reality is that most men have about the same size penis. Of course, there are exceptions, but penises on men are like bananas at Whole Foods. Some in a bunch might be smaller than others, but by and large (no pun intended), there is an average.
So, what gives with the guys down in South Florida and their small perceived stature? Of course, how do I know that small penises are endemic here? Well, frankly, I don't.
I am just surmising this based on the toxic, aggressive masculinity I've experienced in the grocery store, on the roads riding my bike, or traveling by car, and the prevalence of a particular type of motor vehicle: the monster pickup truck with its "penis extension exhaust" that comes with black-colored alloy wheels, ridiculously low-profile tires (that I am sure ensures a bone-rattling ride) and a sound system designed to make any music played, the equivalent of a serial killer's murder of the original recording.
Most of the time, there are bumper stickers. Often, they praise Trump, advocate for the murder of "Woke" folks, push locking up Hillary, and expound upon their Christian faith, often quoting the Old Testament, saving babies and keeping the death penalty. It is like their ideology was made in a VitaMix.
And how would this not be replete without the mock testicles hanging from the tow-hitch?
If it were only this horrible sense of aesthetics and loud noise, I could see this as a cultural phenomenon, but it is not.
There is an anger that they carry that leaches out. I was in Publix the other day, and as I meandered my way up one of the aisles listening to one of my true crime podcasts, my path was blocked by a couple. The husband was wearing a golf shirt and a DeSantis cap, and he had the cart on the left side of the aisle a bit turned towards the right; if this were out on the road, he would be hanging over the yellow lines.
The wife was looking at cans of beans and blocked my ability to go forward using the right side. No worries, I was engrossed with Keith Morrison interviewing the victim's sister on another "whodunit" episode of Dateline. The wife sees me, apologizes, and tells her husband to move the cart. I wish I could have casually clicked my Ray-Ban Meta's on to record him saying: "I was waiting for him to say excuse me."
If I had been in a rush, I would have politely asked him to move out of MY way, but as I said, I was happy as a clam waiting and listening to my Podcast.
Where does anger like this man's come from? Here in Wellington, it seems to come from, in my experience, white folks feeling slighted. Odd really, Wellington would return to its Everglade beginnings if all the brown people decided to up and leave. Not to mention the horse show grounds would become the equine manure capital of the world. How would the polo players swap out their horses? It would be a challenge if they had to depend on white kids. How do these people who toil in heat mucking stalls, trimming hedges, cleaning out canals and work in domestic roles put up with this? Desperation is the answer.
After the Publix fiasco, I jumped on my bike and headed home. Of course, I was on high alert for more South Florida bike riding experiences, but I let my guard down once I crossed Forest Hill Blvd and started riding on the genteel "12th Fairway" road. It is all residential. As I rode, please note that I was wearing a smart helmet with turn blinkers and flashing brake lights, a red strobe light on the back, and a white light on the front. Then there is the horn that blares at 130 decibels.
At first, I heard the growl of one of the aforementioned trucks. Next, I got the horn and "get out of the road" catcall. In the words of Mr. T, "I pity the fool" driving this truck because I did have my Ray-Ban Metas ready to take a shot of his car after he parked in his driveway.
The reality is the mix of privilege, anger, racism, and stupidity is a dangerous thing. And here, it sometimes feels like a club. The "Little Members Club."
To quote the late great Groucho Marx – "I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member."
Certainly, this club.
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Read more about the mystery of While Rural Rage here from the New York Times by clicking here.