Did You Just Shit Your Pants?

Okay, okay...don’t start bitchin’ about my lack of blog activity as of late - I am aware that I’ve been starving the chronicles for exactly a year and I know that I should do better. Sometimes, I just don’t feel like writing. Sometimes, I’m uninspired. Sometimes, I just don’t fuckin’ wanna. But my biggest issue is that I feel like something big has to happen for me to write about it; I realize that there are lots of small things that happen that are definitely good material and would make nice short stories to provide quality entertainment for you fuckers, but my big brain forgets that sometimes. I’m working on that. However, this story I’m about to tell you here, smdh....it’s a big one.

Starting with a little back story.

This summer, I’ve acquired myself a fishin’ buddy. He’s a pretty reliable fishin’ buddy too, as in he’s always down to catch some fishy-fishies. It could be cold outside or scorching hot, a sunny day or a rainy one, early in the day or late at night....it makes no difference. If there is time to spend by some water with a pole, that’s how he wants to spend it. And that works well for my Pisces life.

So two Sundays ago, me and said fishin’ buddy are chillen down by the river in our Walmart camping chairs, drinking on some cold beers, slinging livers and Texas jumbo shrimps around, simultaneously looking for Bigfoot. (You saw the picture of that river monster we snagged from the lock wall, right? Yeah, that was the day.) So as we sat there in the sunshine, draining what was left of my phone battery on some random tunes, we get on the subject of Journey. I said to him, common knowledge to most but not so much to him yet, “Randaddy HATES journey. He says Journey is what will be playing in hell when he gets there.” And my fishin’ buddy, being a music man, tells me that he likes the Journey from before yada-yada-something-something that I know nothing about happened...the details escape me and for that I apologize. The conversation then continues, “He hates Journey but he loves the Eagles, says the Eagles are his guilty pleasure.” My fishin’ buddy replies, “well hell, there’s an Eagles tribute band playing at the winery this Saturday, you should tell him about it. A few of us from work are going.” I say, as my phone battery takes a shit for the day, “You’ll have to remind me, the communicator is officially dead.” And so, we go on about our fishing adventure, and ultimately, tag-team that river monster that I mentioned a second ago. (But did you see it? Really?)

I think it’s like Tuesday before I remember to mention the event to Randaddy, and I think it’s like Thursday before I get a solid response. Because my parents are very much “on the fly” people, and I’m very much a “plan everything in advance” person...it gives me anxiety.

Late Thursday, I see that the winery had posted on Facebook that the tickets were going fast and there were only about 30 left. In a panic, I check my bank account. I see that I’ve got the money to cover our tickets because my phone bill hadn’t auto paid itself yet, and I shoot my fishin’ buddy a message and tell him to hurry and get their tickets too. He asked me to get his with ours because he didn’t get paid until midnight, and I scurry on over to the website and secure 4 of the remaining 30 tickets. After midnight, all the tickets were sold, and I was glad that I saw the Facebook post before I fell asleep because that would have been a total bummer.

Fast forward to Saturday now, the day of the event, add in a fall weather bullshit chest cold and a few double shots of mucinex....I’m in the Navigator and on my way to pick up my fishin’ buddy who had been left stranded by an episode of bad luck the day before.

I allow myself plenty of time to pick him up and meet the parentals back at my house at 5:30 pm, I figured that I’d pass his house up at least 3 times before I found it because I’d only been there once and I’m certain that I was kicked back eating Queso Ruffles in the passenger side floorboard of his Ranger because my fishin’ buddy doesn’t believe in having a passenger seat...seriously, you can’t make this shit up. (It was pretty comfy tho, except for when the floorboard got hot and burned my ass cheeks....) Anyhow, I’m cruising down 202 smoking a Marlboro Ultra-Light (because my best friend ruined my non-smokin’ life...) and I get stuck behind a tractor pulling a silage wagon, and a big ass bad daddy brand new ford truck, less than a mile from my house.

Following behind tractors and shit is nothing new on 202; just a part of the country life that one must endure on the regular. You can’t even worry about it.

We get to the only place between my house and New Castle where it’s moderately safe to pass another vehicle, and the big ass bad daddy brand new ford truck goes around the tractor and the silage wagon. When he makes it around safely, I follow suit and direction.

So I’m cruising about 35-40 mph in the opposite lane, get right beside the silage wagon and the front wheel of that motherfucker broke off. And it didn’t just break off; it broke THE FUCK off.

Not a blowout, not a tire came off the wheel, not a donut sized tire, not even a car sized tire...A FLOTATION TIRE. AND A STEEL WHEEL. BROKE. THE FUCK OFF. THE SILAGE WAGON.

I hear the god awful sound of the hub hitting and gouging the road, I see the silage wagon jerk toward me, and then out of the corner of my eye I see said steel wheel & flotation tire as they come bouncing toward me ....and then slam into the front of the Navigator.

Talk about a holy shit moment. Actually, it was more of a Jesus take BOTH the wheels moment. A what the fuck just happened in my life moment. Oh, but it didn’t end there.

I didn’t even get a chance to breathe it out and recover before the whole ass end of the Navigator came up off the road. Waaaaay up off the road. At least three feet up off the road. Or however high you can imagine a vehicle would go if it ramped a fuckin’ FLOTATION TIRE at 40 mph.

So there I am, still on the wrong side of the road, just cruising on the front two wheels of a 6000 pound, aerodynamic as a fuckin’ brick Navigator that isn’t the most reliable of all vehicles by any means, and all I can think to myself is...my god, this big motherfucker is gonna land HARD.

So I brace for impact and get ready to be slung into the ditch, or thrown into the tractor, or into the mailbox or the light pole or the wooden fence or any number of obstacles in my close vicinity....still smoking on my Marlboro Ultra-Light, mind you...and my whole life flashes before my eyes - I prepare to meet my maker.

I think about my puppies. I think about my Madre. I think about my incarcerated best friend who I’m never gonna see again. I think about how I’m about to miss the fuckin’ Eagles tribute band, and how fuckin’ stupid it is that the crow is about to be taken out by a fuckin’ FLOTATION TIRE. Of all things!

And as I prepare to close to my eyes, tighten up and take what the fuck I’ve got coming to me....that sketchy at best, unreliable, 6000 pound aerodynamic as a fuckin’ brick Navigator lands back on all four wheels just as graceful and elegant as a fuckin’ swan...not only did it stay on the road, it even stayed in the wrong lane...didn’t jar me, didn’t throw me, didn’t even fuckin’ knock the ashes off my Marlboro Ultra-Light.

And then I peed a little.

I pulled into the next driveway, because I’m thinking I’ve got tires about to deflate, the oil pan is probably behind me in the road with my life that just escaped me...probably got a busted radiator...I mean, the Navigator has GOT to be fucked up right now. Reflex makes me grab my phone and call Madre...because when you almost die, you always want your mom, right? But she didn’t answer! (She says she was in the shower, but I know it was because she was listening to that ring tone she has set for me, that’s a kid screamin’ for their mom to answer the phone. Pretty ironic if you ask me, but never-the-less, there was no answer.) So I put the phone down and got out to survey the damage...

But there wasn’t any.

The tires, all properly inflated. Oil pressure, still good. Engine temperature, still normal. Grille, busted but that was existing damage. No dents. Nothing hanging. Nothing dragging. But how does it drive?

I back out of the driveway and head back toward the farmer and the tractor and the silage wagon. AND THE FLOTATION TIRE. The Navigator drives fine! I stop, brakes work fine! The farmer, who’s name was Derrick, walks up to my window, seemingly more shaken than me, and says...

“Did you just shit your pants? Because I just shit my pants. Are you all okay?” And he looks in the back window of the Navigator into the back seat...

And I’m thinking, “All? It’s just me in here...what the hell is he talking about?” And then I look in the back seat.

And you already know my ride or die is back there, strapped in.

Yep, the outlaw...in all his glory.

The badass himself, Harry Allan Coe. From the woods.

In his “Fuck Off, I’m Taken.” tank top.

And the bandana strapped to his head.

And his stunna shades on.

And his sheriff badge.

And his ‘royal guild of drunks” button.

Just posted up and along for the ride, like always. ....and I secretly wonder if he had shit HIS pants.

Farmer Derrick shakes his head like he’d just hallucinated, but he didn't ask. He just said, “...you are one lucky son of a bitch.”

And I reply, “Oh my god, I know! If this had happened two days ago, I would have been in a PT Loser and I would have died.”

And he says, “Yeah, this big ass vehicle just saved your life...if you had been in a car, it would have been a completely different situation.”

So Farmer Derrick does a walk around the Navigator and lays down in the road and looks under it to see if anything is leaking or fucked up, gets back up and says... “There’s a scuff on the front bumper, but surprisingly, everything else looks good....” He gave me his number, told me to call him if I had any problems. And it was at this point that I used my shakey ass hand to finally put out that Marlboro Ultra-Light in the ash tray.

Farmer Derrick apologized very sincerely at the sight of me shaking uncontrollably, and I realized that even though he obviously traveled my road a lot with shitty equipment in tow....he really was a nice guy.

Afterwards, while I was back to gettin’ where I was gettin’ to, I couldn’t help but think about how Randaddy has always told me to go big, to drive big...so I could “slam into shit and limp away....” For once in my life, this was a lesson that I didn’t choose to learn the hard way.

13.5 miles per gallon for the fuckin’ win, y'all!

And in case you were wondering, watching the Eagles Tribute band and drinking wine a mile from my house with the parentals and my fishin' buddy, seeing the dancing man in Jesus sandals that had the “spirit moving his feet” and the “devil’s lubricant” moving the rest....it was all totally worth the wild ride it took to get me there.

...but here’s to not having anymore final destination bullshit happen for a good long while, the crow has NO more time allotted for shitting herself, or for heart arrhythmia.

#cheersfuckers #freejdale