I am not a fan of bumper stickers. I really don't care if a driver is pro-choice or their kid is on some middle school's honor roll. Fine you like the Grateful Dead, so do I. But I don't need a skull sticker slapped on the rear of my car to verify the fact.
Do I care to see Calvin peeing on your ex-wife, ex-boyfriend or whatever the name of the person that upset you so much you actually paid to buy a sticker and foul your back window? NO, I do not care.
So, it is with great surprise that I have bumper stickers. I did not put them there. My husband did. First it was a pretty cool G.Loomis red, white and blue, skeleton fish on my back window. That was good, I liked it. Until the wiper erased all traces of color and I was left with a bony white fish, looking like it sat at the high tide line over the summer. It was ghoulish.
Then I came back from a short vacation down South and my husband had "hot rodded" the Fuelinator. Apparently, when a man adds something to a vehicle the box the part came in has stickers. I don't need these stickers. I don't need people to know what's under my hood. Not that the Fuelinator is a sleeper. But hey, a girl's gotta have a few secrets.
Then my husband came home after picking our son up from bootcamp.
Wham bam, thank you Maam. He removed, spooky bony fish and added this doozie. But I am going to keep it. I am very proud of our son, so it will stay.
But how can I be surprised. These are man stickers and he is a man. Who likes big diesel vehicles, laden down with stickers.
Below, John's truck.