The TRUE Story of That Trip

Neal Morse—Sola Scriptura

MoTW—Halloween

So here it is, the REAL story of the vacation. None of that namby-pamby
bullshit you (might have) read before, but the real-deal, no corners
cut, unexpurgated, uncut, director's version that you could not see in
theaters, the story too shocking to tell but it must be told, oh yes, it
must.

I started off innocently enough.

I was just sitting around doing my thang when the phone rang. With
nothing better to do, I answered it.

"We need some beer," said the voice, obviously scrambled by some
high-tech spy scrambling voice thingy.

I was game. "How much?"

"Eighteen cases."

"Where do you need it delivered?"

"The state fair."

"When?"

"Nine hours."

"But that's over two thousand miles away!"

"We'll pay you for your troubles."

"Ok, sounds fair. How much?"

"Eight hundred dollars along with the cost of the beer of course."

"Of course."

"If you're late, the elephants die."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. You know, my brother doesn't think you can do it."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"Interesting."

"Yeah. You game?"

"Yep."

"Ok. The clock starts ticking………NOW!"

With that the phone went dead and I sprung into action.

I scurried to the garage and uncovered the Mazda 3 with the 857 Hemi,
dual struts, 18" wheels, shift on the ceiling and those two oversized
canister of nitrous oxided glycerine glycerine, hopped into the leopard
skin covered bucket seat, started that fucker up, floored it and
screamed out of the garage onto the street filled with the neighborhood
kids and senile senior citizenry.

I managed to get away with clipping only one of the seniors, sending him
and his walker airborne where they both performed rather graceful swan
dives before settling gently onto the hard, hot pavement as I floored
the accelerator, hitting 80 in about two seconds, and then smashing down
the brake pedal causing the car to drop from eighty to nothing in about
45 yards because I almost had forgot about the stop sign at the end of
the block.

Next stop was the store, where I stocked up with the requested beer and
then I hit the highway. As I was bringing the vehicle up to a safe
speed, I whipped out my trusty cell phone and punched in some numbers.

"Hello?" I asked.

I heard nothing.

"Hello?" I asked again, but again there was nothing.
I looked down at the phone and noticed the dialed number was showing on
the screen which was odd but then I remembered so I hit the "SEND"
button and then heard a thunk and the car veered to the left so I put a
hand back on the steering wheel and then saw in the rearview mirror and
elderly gentleman and his walker revolving quite gracefully through the
air until they both landed gently on the hot highway tar.

I shrugged it off because it didn't look too painful, but then it did
when the Roto-Rooter truck tried to swerve around the rocker, but didn't
manage to completely do so because one of the legs of the walker got
caught in the spokes of the left front wheel of the truck and then there
was a Roto-Rooter truck floating and revolving quite gracefully through
the air.

Remembering I had made a phone call and it would be rude to ignore that
fact, I never saw the truck land, but I'm sure it would have been as
graceful as the old men and walkers as before.

This time it was the phone saying "Hello?" to me so I said "Hello?" back
and it went on from there.

"What's up?"

"You still have that eighteen wheeler?"

"Sure as my name is Rubber Duck!"

"Which it isn't."

"True."

"But can I be Rubber Duck?"

"Probably have to be Rubber Duck Two, or something like that. Don't want
to get sued or anything."

"Yeah. Hey, how about Ducky Rubber? Can I be Ducky Rubber?"

"Sure."

"Cool! What's the two-ten?"

"Two-ten?"

"Yeah! That's CB talk for 'what's happening'?"

So I told him and soon Ducky Rubber aka Spunky the Clown was on the road
in his shiny eighteen wheeler adorned with glittery chrome pipes, a two
story sleeper, clean mud flaps, 17' running boards, duel fog lamps and a
large green devil-looking face attached to the front grill.

We were going to have ourselves a convoy and nothing was going to get in
our way.

COMING NEXT: More of the truth

Stephen Johnson

The idea of building a website with Bob came from Stephen in the days of message boards and chat rooms. We settled on the name TheWeirdcrap.com and the rest is history. Retired since he hit the ripe age of 25, he spends most his time doing odd-jobs around the house and digging thru trash bins for "stuff that's still good." Stephen has contributed several short stories and hosted the "Lunatic Ravings" column since the beggining. The idea of writing weekly columns (blogs didn't exist yet) also came from Stephen. So I guess that makes him the creator of the "blog" phenomena.

https://theweirdcrap.com

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