Posted by: Shanna Germain | 10/16/2009

Pg. 174: Hey you! Get into my car!

[There should be an image of a car here. But since I keep forgetting my camera while I’m out walking, and since I’m posting this at eleven at night, I am not about to go out and try to capture a photo. So pretend there is a photo here of the coolest, hottest, most awesomest car you’ve ever seen.]


[Also: Note to parents, siblings, grandparents and other family members who might be perusing Chapter 37. You might want to skip today’s post. I get a little -*cough*- anal in my rants].


For a while now I’ve been meaning to write about a phenomena that I’m experiencing here in Ft. Worth that I have to admit, I have never, ever experienced before. Okay, maybe once or twice, but it was a very, very long time ago and I’ve either blocked it out of my memory banks or it was all swept away by the fourth wave of feminism.

What is this thing, you ask?

It is the odd (and oddly enlightening) experience of being yelled at out of car windows. I thought this kind of mating ritual and/or conversational tactic went the way of the dodo bird long ago, but apparently it is alive and well in some parts of the world. I have yet to take a walk, be it four blocks or four miles, where someone has not uttered something out their window on their way by at a hundred miles an hour.

So far, the more memorable yells have included:

  1. “Hot! Hot! Hot!” (Yes, it was about 97 degrees, and I was sweating profusely as I toted my ginormous backpack around, but the guy didn’t really need to remind me).
  2. “Hey! Cut your hair, ya hippie!!” (Yelled at my male friend, whose hair is far above his shoulders).
  3. “Woo-woo, girlie!” (Yelled, surprisingly enough, by a girl).
  4. “Hey baby. You look tired” (Which either he intended to follow up with “That’s ’cause you been runnin’ through my mind all night” or else I really did look tired. I’m not sure which one would have been the worse pick up line).
  5. Ballsack!!! (Yeah, I don’t know about that one either. I’m pretty sure I look like a girl, even in jeans and a t-shirt.)

And then tonight, the capper. While I was waiting for the light to change in the crosswalk, this young man (ooh, how old I feel writing that!) pulled up, stopped his car and yelled, “Hey! Can I fuck you?” Now, if I was thinking more clearly (and/or expecting such a question, which I probably should have been by this point), I could have come up with any number of not-so-smart responses, including:

  1. I don’t know. Can you?
  2. I think you mean to ask, “Hey! May I fuck you?” And since you don’t know the difference and I’m an anal writer, no, you may not.
  3. No, but you can go fuck yourself.
  4. Sure. I cost $2000 an hour. The cost doubles if you don’t give me an orgasm.
  5. Sure. If I can fuck you (ideally, at which point, I would have been able to pull a twelve-inch long dildo out of my backpack and wiggled it at him. I really should get one of those and start carrying it around just for that purpose).

As it was, I did what I usually do when I’m startled, taken aback, or otherwise completely shell-shocked and I said… absolutely nothing… and merely stared at him with an expression that was both quizzical and slightly pissed off.  To which he replied, “Great!” as though I’d just given him the two thumbs up and started pulling down my pants right there in the crosswalk.

Now, why this phenomena here and nowhere else that I’ve lived in the last, oh, thirty-seven years? In Portland, one would be seriously frowned on by feminists, humanists, greenies (you’re driving a car, after all — that’s bad enough; yelling out the window is just asking for it), bikers, the mayor, most dogs, stray cats, your grandmother and your grandfather, the toddler whose mother is pushing him in her racing stroller while she runs her tenth mile of the day, and everyone else you might come across. Not to mention, there are so many people walking on the sidewalk in a place like Portland that no one would have a clue who you were yelling at. It would be like that old SNL skit. “Who you callin’ a hottie? Me?” “Him?” “Oh, me?” “No, him?” “Her?”

I chalk the lean-out-the-window-and-yell culture up to any number of possible reasons:

  1. The feminist/humanist/”Talk to her like a human being if you want to have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting her into bed” movements have not yet hit this part of Texas. Thus, your options for dating are Craig’s list, The People of Walmart, or dogging your head out the car window and wagging your tongue at the rare walking human being, rabid raccoon, or wind-blown piece of trash.
  2. No one walks here. Thus, anyone who deems to get out of their ginormous truck and attempt to stroll down the sidewalk/lack of sidewalk concoction that makes up most of the walking routes must get yelled at. How else do you show that you are uncomfortable by this person’s bizarre choices?
  3. There is some secret service that I don’t know about yet, which allows you to electronically look up the license plate of any car whizzing by you at break-neck speed and get their cell phone number, at which point you can call them up and have the following conversation. “Hey, do you drive a 1978 rust-colored Camaro?” “Actually, it’s black. That’s just a little rust coming up on it.” “Oh. Well, did you drive on Hulen Road earlier and yell “Baby, I wanna’ do you!” at a blond chick with a big backpack?” “Hell yeah. That was me.” “Oh great, so nice to meet you. -giggle- Wanna’ take me out?” “Hell yeah. I’ll drive by you on Hulen again and yell out my home address and you come here and we’ll get it on.” “Sounds great! I can’t wait! I’ll be listening for your yell! -giggle-.”
  4. [Please insert your answer here because I’m out of ideas. Completely.]

Now, I don’t want to sound all “too cool for school” and act like I’m not flattered by all this attention. Because, I mean, really, whose panties wouldn’t get all in a knot at the sound of someone yelling “Ballsack!” at them. I  know, I know, I prefer that wonderful old-fashioned and completely yellable “Scrotum!” myself, but “Ballsack!” is a very close second.

When I started this post, I had a way to end it. Some kind of uplifting “good yell out the window” story, but I got so caught up in writing about my future dating prospects that I forgot it. But let’s just say this: Next time I have a car, I’m going to try my hand at this new “speed dating.” I’ve already got my pickup line ready. I’m just going to lean out my window and yell, “Ooh, baby! Want to help me get rid of this new car smell?” Which, I’m sure will sound just as hot, sultry and irresistible at seventy miles an hour as I want it to. Or maybe I’ll just stick with the always-understandable and multi-lingual “Ballsack!”

Far and fast, s.


“In less enlightened times, the best way to impress women was to own a hot car. But women wised up and realized it was better to buy their own hot cars so they wouldn’t have to ride around with jerks.” ~Scott Adams



  1. “Ooh, baby! Want to help me get rid of this new car smell?”

    Oh. My. God.

    *falls on floor laughing*

    • Hehehe! I’m afraid if I tried to yell it, I’d end up laughing in the middle of it too. Which would defeat the purpose, probably. Maybe I can make it into a bumper sticker.

  2. I think you mean to ask, “Hey! May I fuck you?” And since you don’t know the difference and I’m an anal writer, no, you may not….i love that one!!!

    great and entertaining post:-) but, after all, this yelling thing inded is just acompliment..from someone rude or shy..somehow i like the idea of girls yelling sexy stuff sat girls..hmmmmmm

    • I guess that’s part of it — no matter how hot I thought someone was, I would never ever yell at them out of a window. I don’t know if it’s because I’m shy or because I’m too prideful 🙂

  3. This is a fantastic essay (though I’m sorry you’ve had to undergo the series of events that prompted it).

    But I do think you misunderstood the “Ballsack!” guy. Clearly this was a literature maven, one who can recognize a kindred spirit at 70 mph and likes to share his enthusiasm for Balzac.

    • Oh, my god! Yes! He’s a literate car-yeller! I didn’t know there was such a thing… wow, I’ve missed out 😦 However will I find my Balzac man again?!

  4. Agree, you are way too cool for school.

    Great job. In the Caribbean, where it’s hot, hot, hot you hear

    “PPPSSSSSSSSTTT! Sista, u one cool glass a wata.

    • It’s true. I’d forgotten about that! I hear a lot of “pssssst! macha!” and “guera! guera!” when I go to central and south america too.


    pick a cool car from my collection

    • Oooh! We can go cruising and pick up chicks! 🙂

  6. That’s right up there with being carded.

    If you got it … flaunt it.. but I’d keep the dildo around.

    Actually, I’m going to start carrying one so when the idiots in the club get stupid I can start beating them with it 🙂


    • Oh my god, Annie… I want to see you swinging a dildo in a club. Please. Pretty please?

  7. Um….the only thing I’ve ever gotten was “oh my fucking God” as I was driving away from the gas pump with the hose still in my car. I like your screamers a lot better. Texas sounds fine!

    • You’re just in the wrong area of the country, Missy! Here they’d be yelling about your great ass 🙂

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