I don’t think they need to worry
When we were driving out to darkest suburbia this afternoon (for a round of legos and clothes shopping for the bears, we got stuck behind someone in a SUC (a R*ng* R*v*r, all decked out with floodlights, ladders, bush racks, and all of this was, as you can expect, sparklingly shiny as if it had never gone off the road in its life.) Julie noticed it first -- the stupid truck had a little custom plate applied right above the big V8 (which, what, gives you about the same acceleration as a 2001 Prius? Possibly, if you're in freefall) label on the back door.
I couldn't read it, but the best could, and she said I should try to get a picture while we were stopped at the light. So I did, and when we got home I enlarged the picture, and, yes, it said just what the best said it said:
"Do my balls look big in this?", eh? Um, no, I don't think so. Perhaps under a really powerful microscope, but not without one. But we already knew that when we saw the SUC in the first place.