Los Cojones Grandes

So we were walking through The Dreaded Wal-Mart today, and—I know, I know:  anything that happens at The Wal-Mart is my own damn fault, right? For even going there. But I have My Reasons. More about which later, I hope. But today:
We’re walking through, on our way out, and behind me I hear someone rapping. As in:  making up rhymes in a loud and obnoxiously  atonal sort of way, mangling the language and the grammar but feeling all butch. And the rap is about how Orange Hair is Only for Clowns.  And I’m all like, “Hey. They’re rapping about my hair!” Which is flattering, if you think about it, but also kind of odd.
‘Cause, you know:  most kids who are young enough to want to be rude to adults in public are also young enough to be pretty much intimidated by someone whose level of Apparent Coolness so far, far exceeds their own, never mind how mightily they might try to convince themselves otherwise. I mean, really:  I have the tattoos their parents won’t let them get. Oh, sure:  I don’t have any skulls or daggers or nekkid people, but I do have a rose (big prison fav!) and a snake (ooooooh!). Plus I have the female version of cojones that allows me to walk around in public looking like, uh, well:  not like their grandmother. Which is what they feel most comfortable with us looking like, you know? People of a Certain Age are best if easily pegged:  paunchy, high-waisted high-water pants, big-ass glasses, some high percentage of polyester. That depressed, Resigned to Life shuffle.

You know.
But these guys! They had the cojones to rap me out. Right there in The Wal-Mart! Whooza. I was going to turn around to see who it might have been (black? white? hispanic? gang tattoos? mohawks?), but I was afraid I’d see the human version of Candy the Squirrel’s Bad Boyfriend.
Candy is occasionally followed by this male squirrel who has—omigod!—the most proportionately gigantinormous testicles you have ever imagined on any one creature in your entire life. These things are the size of golf balls, I kid you not.  Which means they’re roughly the size of his HEAD. They’re giant, and they’re obscene (think:  squirrel nuts, and think about how testicles, no matter how you love The Male Parts, are just not (I am so sorry) the most attractive anatomical feature of any species), and they seem to weigh him down to a pathetic degree. It’s like he’s dragging around the whole Squirrel Legacy back there.
I did not want to see that in human form, OK? Cojones enough to rap about my hair = cojones enough to take away my appetite for the next, oh, several eons, because, y’all, I was imagining someone following behind me, rapping about my clown hair, pushing his big ol’ hairy nuts in a wheelbarrow through The Wal-Mart.
Oy.