02 September 2008

Truck Sex On Satellite: Privacy in the post-InterWebs age


Exciting New Google Maps feature! You can now use Google Maps to find
all the placeswhere middle-aged men are trying to talk their long-suffering
wives into having sex with them in the cabs of their trucks.*

"A less appetizing Google feature has never been introduced." -CNET Reviews

*Not.


Greg:

Teresa and I were driving over to Lowe's yesterday in my bitchen new truck when a great idea struck me.

"Hey honey, instead of going to Lowe's, how 'bout we go have sex somewhere right now - just find somewhere shady to park and knock off a chunk right here in the cab of the truck."

You can probably already guess by knowing Teresa that the idea was less-than-enthusiastically received. I counter-pointed that the features of the 2008 Toyota Tacoma Access Cab (with Sport Package) would surely accommodate almost any position that a man of my noble dimensions and a woman of her diminutive stature could dream up. She said yeah, you go ahead and keep dreaming, Mr. Tetris.

Undaunted, I pressed on by pointing out that not only do the front seats fully recline, I had proven on more than one occasion that the jump seats afforded me more than enough room to nap (albeit in the cannonball position). And for the truly adventurous and outdoorsy, the suicide doors could be utilized to create a veritable -

"No," she said.

"Why?" I said.

She explained that here in the Age of the InterWebs that some damn satellite would whiz by and snap our picture, and there we'd be
in flagrante delicto on Google Maps. She has a point, but I shan't be deterred. Besides, I am already on a quest to be the most privacy-compromised individual on the InterWebs.

Not like I haven't had my privacy compromised already. I have. My identity has already been stolen once. Back in nineteen-ought-ninety-two, I received a very politely-worded warrant in the mail from the Silverdale County Sheriff asking me to turn myself in for felony forgery. I called them up, said what the f, they said you wrote a bad check for $400, I said joke's on you, I don't have a checking account, they said so sorry to bother you - our bad, but keep the warrant as our lovely parting gift to you; but then that kinda shit kept happening until February '98 when I had to have my name and my birth certificate and my SSN card changed, and then my credit was completely dicked until about two or three years ago - true story.

But I figure in this day and age of Facebook and MySpace and Twitter and what the hell all else, the only defense you have of your privacy is to put so much information out there about yourself that eventually people will be hard pressed to figure out what's fact, what's rumor, and what's legend - you know, kinda like it is with Bigfoot, the chupacabra, and Britney Spears.

Some people might say, "Hey, isn't that called obfuscation and inveiglement?" To which I reply, "Only if you're smart and use big words". I have my own name for this tactic, and I call it "Hornswoggling the InterWebs".

So far I'm on a pretty good pace to accomplish my goal. Last time I vanity-Googled, damn near all the results on the first page were me - the real me. Oh wait - there was some English novelist who had a character named Thaddeus Gunn, a name she undoubtedly stole from me, Thaddeus Gunn.

Of course I ran this whole "hornswoggling" idea past my wife if only as a transparent last-ditch ruse to get some truck sex. She usually supports all my crazy notions, but not this time. She was steadfast in her refusal.

"And how does us - as you so eloquently put it - "slamming ham" in the cab of your truck figure in to all of this?"

She had me there.

"It'd be fun."

"No."

"C'mon. You know what rhymes with truck?"

"Yes. You're out of luck."

She said that the real danger was not really in getting snapped by a satellite or in footage of us "in progress" winding up on YouTube. That was a foregone conclusion. The world is rife with electronic eyes in the 21st century. The real danger that once the footage was posted, we'd be arrested for boring the crap out of everyone on the planet. She said that there's a good reason why you don't see porn videos with titles like "Middle-Aged Married Couple Having Consensual Sex In A Mid-Life Crisis Truck".

I suddenly lost the urge.

Seahawks place me on injured reserve list

The Seahawks made a fan-cap saving move this weekend when they placed me on injured reserve. Seems I pulled that plantar fascia thingamadeal in the bottom of my foot as I was running up the stairs to my seat in row II (as in "aye aye") in the 300 level of Qwest Field. I was quoted as saying, "Shit that hurts!" The Seahawks dispatched the Raiders 23-16 in preseason action. In response to the 'Hawks victory, I was also quoted as saying, "Whooooooooo!" and "Go Haaaaaaaawwwks!"

The Indescribable Oomph - Part 2

The search for the Best Goddamn Copywriter In The Whole Wide World continues. As it turns out, the phenomenally well-written "Look At This Fuckin' Product" series of print ads is not written by one, nor two, nor three different copywriters, but is the product of a distributed cognitive system comprised of a lot of people everywhere. (Or more precisely, all over hell and gone. -Ed.)

The latest opus from this Unstoppable Mass-Mind of Advertising has been channeled through its humble servant eon. Observe his omnipotent flex-action on life-giving fluids:

7 comments:

Booya said...

Got to love Google. I hope that plantar fascia thingamadeal heals soon, the Hawks will need you in the post season.




Bitchen Truck!

Thaddeus Gunn said...

Thank you! And yes it is a bitchen truck. Why anyone wouldn't want to have sex in it is beyond me.

And regarding the plantar fascia thingamadeal - good thing I'm not a wide receiver. I think the Hawks have less than one right now. There gonna have to recruit the guy who makes the hot dogs or something bein's I'm gonna be out for a week or so. I mean, hell, I already have a #87 gen-yoo-wine NFL on-field issue jersey! If I wasn't dinged up, I might already be a candidate just for having one.

Booya said...

Well if the hotdog guy can’t get his 40 time down, there is a beer vendor who runs like a gazelle and has decent hands.

Maybe you could talk Coach Holmgren into giving Usain Bolt a look.

On the wife situation, I think she wants to be dominated and for you to “take her” in that bitchen truck, hell it makes me moist.

Sgt. Rock said...

At least two of my babies were the result of trucksex; the other was lawnsex;nunyabidness whose hoo.
Actually it was Lawnsex, Stationwagginsex,and Truksex.

Having recently seen a very whacky episode of some PBS thing on epigenetics, I'm slightly concerned that some of my great grandchildren will sprout wheels.

Thaddeus Gunn said...

For a second I read your comment wrong and thought it said "Turk Sex", in which case you should expect your g-g-children should sprout turbans, baklava, or wattles and tail feathers.

As I recall, not many of your vehicles were ever in working order, (read "Tits Up in a Ditch" by Annie Proulx for a definition) so I'm glad to hear that you got at least some use out of them.

Thaddeus Gunn said...

Booya - "dominate" ain't a word I use around my wife. She's Basayan. Her ancestors used to eat people like me. I try pulling that and I'll wake up some night with a fork in my loins.

The General said...

The wife and I first started trying to concieve our child while travelling in Turkey. We figured, if nothing else, it would improve the childs ability to grow a bitchin' mustache.

Sadly, we did not succeed in the Baby Makin'™ until we'd moved ot Belltown. The possible side effects of creating a child in Belltown are a little scary to say the least. Keep your fingers crossed.