We have all been in this situation before.
At least I have, and I arrogantly assume that means everyone else has too.
But you are at the stop light, waiting for the light to change, along with everyone else.
Except for the person next to you.
They are rockin like they are in the shower at home and no one can see them.
Except that they are in public.
I was traveling home from a stay over at a friend’s house a few years ago.
It’s way early in the morning, and I am barely coherent as I drive along.
I come up on a traffic light on the outskirts of the city, in semi farmland.
There is a pick up truck in the lane next to me.
One of those 1970’s, big ole Chevy trucks.
The guy driving has all the symptoms of being a serious redneck.
Stetson hat, the Chevy truck itself, gunrack, NRA sticker on the back window, alone with a matching”Cold dead fingers” sticker on the other side.
And as I pull up, I notice that the passenger window is rolled down.
I would not be shocked to hear the country twang of Willie Nelson or Conway Twitty coming out of that cab.
So when I hear the soprano falsetto of Justin Timberlake cranked to the max, I am a little caught off guard.
And Justin is not alone.
He is singing a duet with the guy behind the wheel.
I roll my car up slowly, I gotta see this.
And what I see makes me a little uncomfortable.
The Marlboro Man is behind the wheel.
He is wearing a white stetson.
Sporting a black goatee and a red Pendleton shirt.
This is a man’s man.
And he is singing in the highest pitch he is capable of, complete with seated dance moves.
The entire scenario is ratcheted up another notch when he looks over and finds me watching.
In his world, he just sprouted a vagina.
He turns eight shades of embarrassed and immediately runs the red light, anything to get away from this moment.
Luckily, we are in the middle of freaking no where, so he does not he broadsided by opposing traffic.
Thank god he didn’t know me, because in his world, he may have to kill me before his secret gets out.
What is that secret, you may ask?
Its a simple one.
There is no room for metro-sexual in country.
The men are men, and the women are women.
And God bless America.
And none of that is subject to change.
See also the Dixie Chicks.
Talk about a cautionary talk.
Know your audience slash demographic, Ladies.
(And for the record, I am embarrassed that those rotten bitches are from Texas.)
Oh, and put Nascar in that too.
Can’t forget that.
(And for those that don’t know, the number three has more significance to these people than the number 12 does to biblical conspiracy theorists.)
So, the moral of this story, if there actually is one, is that, yes, this is America and you are free to do what you like, within the structure of the law.
But be prepared to be embarrassed when you are caught doing your best-
Bringing sexy back.