On the highway this morning, I found myself behind a blue GMC pick-up bearing two stickers, one of a rippling rebel flag and one that read: “Cowboys foreplay: Get in the truck!”

Ah-ha! So that’s how it works. I’ve often wondered about the mating rituals of these elusive men, figuring that somehow, horses were involved, or Stetson cologne, but now I knew for sure. It’s all about the truck. I drove up alongside it, smiling and nodding, alternately pointing to my mouth and giving the “thumbs-up” sign, to indicate my willingness to “make out,” but the driver was consumed with singing along to Molly Hatchet, and didn’t notice me. Perhaps at some point in the future I’ll run across him again and be ordered to “get in the truck,” but in the meantime, I have a great idea for a line of custom bumper stickers, highlighting the mating rituals of other groups:

Sailors’ foreplay: Get in the dinghy!

Divemasters’ foreplay: Get in the decompression chamber!

Mechanics' foreplay: Get in the garage!

Nuclear physicists’ foreplay: Get in the particle accelerator!

Toxic mold removal specialists’ foreplay: Get in the cellar!

Birthday party clowns’ foreplay: Get in the unmarked panel truck idling outside!

Star of the day. . .Brooks. But not Dunn.