Craven Moorehead

Last month when I left you, my dedicated readers, you will recall my disgust at visions of over-blown celebrities escaping the long arm of the law by notoriety alone. This in itself led me back out to the road where the playing field is level. I like being out on the road, just the bike, and me and whatever adventure befalls us. Together we serve every purpose in the world and absolutely no purpose at all. A parallel universe must also exist in this space, as the time seems just to pass by, without regard or recognition. It’s sort of a time warp. Like amnesia. You know, where you wake up several days later and have no knowledge of where you have been or what you have been doing, but everyone else tells you that you have been missing for days or weeks, and you just cannot comprehend that concept. Often, these time lapses are drug induced, and I will testify that these are probably the best. I do not however condone the use of recreational pharmaceuticals with the natural euphoria that comes from the open road.

I did not realize that I had been gone for weeks, because in my own mind I had not. To my knowledge, I had very little money, and no particular intent to be anywhere other than just hanging around the trailer park, or the local watering hole. Unfortunately, these things get old and although sometimes exciting, they are usually redundant. I pretty much do the same things over and over again but on a road trip I look for all the possibilities. So while out there with a limited amount of money, and no where to go specifically, I sometimes improvise. I often rely on my personality and charm to get some needed item for nothing. An example would be when I purchase a 39 cent cup of coffee, and talk my way into a day old doughnut for free. This is a basic instinct for survival on the road. It usually works just great, and if someone wants to give you something  for nothing, you might just as well go for it! These procedures however must be adapted to your particular lifestyle and gender. Another shining example would be if you are a 30 year old fairly ugly computer nerd, it would be unwise for you to approach the  hot chick at the 7-11 seeking a free pastry. Even if it is a day or two old. You would be better off going to Comp USA and bargaining for a free mouse pad with your purchase of a USB hub adapter, whatever that is.  I really don’t know what any of that computer stuff is, but I heard about it while I was at a weird coffee shop in Nevada. (they actually spelled it WIRED, but to me it was just WEIRD…)  It was a strange place full of geeks and computers, and I really don’t wannna go back there, but some of the nekkid pictures I saw on some of the computer screens were pretty hot! The coffee wasn’t bad, but that’s another story.  Ooops, this is one of the memories that surfaced from my (long) absence from my usual haunts. I should stay home more often, or so I am told.

If you want to go out on the road for a while and just be yourself, one of the things that you can almost bank on is that  you will encounter some interaction with law enforcement folks. They do after all get paid to investigate seedy looking individuals on motorcycles with out-of-state tags. It’s no different for us Florida Rednecks as it is to you International professionals that only ride on weekends when it’s not raining. All you have to possess is a motorcycle, an out-of-state tag, and the ability to ride. This brings back another cloudy memory of my alleged “long” absence from the trailer park…

I remember that I was out west.  I also recall that it was about to rain, and I was hungry. I was in a small town called Newcastle, in Wyoming. The neon sign by the road said Groceries and Deli. There was a small picnic table placed by the entrance under an overhang that would allow me to consume a (possibly) free sandwich, and shelter for me and the bagger from the impending downpour. As I walked in the door, my weary eyes were exposed to one of the hottest tamales I had seen this side of the border! I observed her as I examined the selection of potato chips and snacks on the rack near the deli case. Looking behind the case,  I requested a dirty magazine from the bottom shelf behind the counter. Sure as shit, when she bent over to retrieve the volume her short skirt exposed a perfect picture of black t-back panties, supported by legs that went from her high heeled clogs all the way to heaven. I realized that this grocery store was not often frequented by the locals, and I realized my opportunity for a free meal was nigh. Trying to keep my cool, I flipped through the pages  of the magazine, only sharing with her the view of certain compromising positions.  She giggled as she sneaked a peek every now and then, and smiled through voluptuous lips.

It was somewhere in the conversation that involved my hunger that she decided that my offer of American sausage was appealing to her hunger and we proceeded to the store’s walk-in freezer. A lunch date in an air-conditioned place was very appealing to me, considering the temps outside were approaching the 100’s. I figured the encounter would be entertaining due to the fact that all the doors in the front of the freezer were glass and visible to the entrance to the store. Even though the shelves in the freezer were stocked with all kinds of crap, I imagined how a patron may be shocked to observe what was fixing to happen. I guess you could see through all that stuff if you really wanted to. Little did I know how shocking and entertaining the rest of my day would become.

After a brief moment of tabloid romance, she dropped my jeans and at the same time to her knees, and began to speak to me in the universal language of lust. I guess I must have went into one of those time warps again, because as I enjoyed  her lunch desires, I felt a strange sensation in my lower back. I turned to see a local constable poking at me through  the ice cream door with a night stick. Needless to say, it was just moments later that I was on my way to the local lock-up for incarceration. I later learned that it was a  town ordinance that had brought me down. I couldn’t believe it! Locked up for some lunch date in a local grocery just didn’t make sense! Once my bail was posted (by the same person that got me in this situation)  I immediately went to the local weird or wired coffee house to gather more information about local laws regarding lunch.  I mean sex..  I have included some of these laws for you, just in case you ever go out of town:

–An ordinance in Newcastle, Wyoming, specifically bans couples from
having sex while standing inside a store’s walk-in meat freezer (this is the one I got busted on)

– In Bakersfield, California, anyone having intercourse with Satan
must use a condom. (An asbestos one I presume.)

– In Oblong, Illinois, it’s punishable by law to make love while
hunting or fishing on your wedding day. (Why mess up a good day of hunting or fishing??)

– In Minnesota, it is illegal for any man to have sexual intercourse
with a live fish.  (Apparently it’s OK for a woman.)

– No man is allowed to make love to his wife with the smell of garlic,
onions, or sardines on his breath in Alexandria, Minnesota. If his wife
so requests, law mandates that he must brush his teeth. (If you have any teeth!)

– Warn your hubby that after lovemaking in Ames, Iowa, he isn’t
allowed to take more than three gulps of beer while lying in bed with
you or holding you in his arms.  (Nothing specifically mentioned about another six pack!)

– Bozeman, Montana, has a law that bans all sexual activity between
members of the opposite sex in the front yard of a home after sundown
if they’re nude.  (I did this here, you don’t have to take ALL your clothes off!)

– In hotels in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, every room is required to
have twin beds. And the beds must always be a minimum of two feet apart
when a couple rents a room for only one night. And it’s illegal to make
love on the floor between the beds! (Unless you bring a sheep or two!)

– The owner of every hotel in Hastings, Nebraska, is required to
provide each guest with a clean and pressed nightshirt. No couple, even
if they are married, may sleep together in the nude. Nor may they have
sex unless they are wearing one of these clean, white cotton
nightshirts. (Or a clean Outlaws support shirt.)

– In Romboch, Virginia, it is illegal to engage in sexual activity
with the lights on. (This is true in trailer parks all over the south!)

The Sick part of this story is that all these laws are REAL! Whether they are enforced  or not. I hope you enjoyed reading them and keep them in mind when you go out on the road. The truth IS stranger than fiction. Until next month, speed safely!

I suppose that I sometimes dwell on thoughts that do not have any basis.  I was once just what I was, but for some reason unbeknownst to me I have been magically transported into a parallel universe where thing are, for the most part, very different. After a couple of days in my brand new doublewide, I began to enjoy the modern conveniences that most folks already enjoy. I mean, for the first time in many years, I do not have to walk outside to the porch to get a beer out of the fridge. In addition, the new hot tub in the bathroom with indoor plumbing is a hoot!  Just a few simple things in life that I have only heard about in BS stories, and never had the opportunity to enjoy. All of the “crap” that existed in my life at home had mysteriously been replaced by stuff that wasn’t “crap”.  As you know, I consistently believe that there is  an underlying force that cannot be trusted, and will consistently try to screw up my unbelievably cool dream, but so far, all has been really good! Or at least that’s what I thought.

Somehow, the ol lady figured out how this new TV set that was installed in our new home worked. I spent a lot of time watching a NASCAR race, and of course King of the Hill, and stuff like that, but that little thin TV set exposed me to stuff that I really didn’t want to get into. Everyone, (even me) has heard of the deal where Michael Jackson was put on trial for being a child molester. When I heard about it on the brand new TV set, I was thinking’ “well it’s about time that freak got what he deserved”….. Then just today, I walked into the trailer to see the ol lady, and a few of our friends gazing transfixed at the new set.  As I casually got a beer from the indoor fridge, I saw a graphic on the screen that stated that the jury had reached a verdict. My immediate thought was “now you’ll see what it feels like up the butt, you little bastard!”…. But as we watched the M J motorcade wind it’s way through the streets of  Santa Maria and on into the Courthouse, I realized that there was WAY too much publicity surrounding this particular case.   It is one thing to be a celebrity, and endure the constant exposure to the media and the public, but it certainly is another and more important thing to have your celebrity status allow you to walk away from a serious alleged crime, that most good ol boys like me don’t cotton to. To me, there is nothing worse in the world than to be a 46 year old freak that has sex with underage boys. I know, I know, yeah, the Jury found him innocent on 10 charges, but any thinking adult must question the verdict. He was literally found innocent by reason of celebrity.  I thought to myself, “why would anyone put their lives on trial, in front of the whole world,  asserting that they were defiled by an individual, if it didn’t really happen”?? That’s steep!  I just don’t get it. It reminds me of that deal with another celebrity, O J Simpson. I hope that both of their ‘careers’ are ruined, but… There has to be a common reason that O J and M J can both ‘walk away’ from their particular alleged crimes, and return to the world as if nothing ever happened.  Back when I was still using discarded newspaper as ‘toilet paper’ I so distinctly remember reading about the evidence presented in the O J case before I wiped my ass with the reports. I just can’t understand why reasonable people can ignore the fact that celebrities are just regular folks, with (in some cases) really sick minds. Now, you KNOW that I particularly despise the Government, and their intrusive and accusatory actions that are executed on a daily basis against good Americans, but they rarely act on a “no evidence” scenario. Even if they know that they are going to lose, they proudly present their case as if they really believe that they are justified in their witch hunt. In the two cases aforementioned however, there must have been something that was evidentiary in their quest. Yeah, murder in one case, and perversion on the other. I guess what I’m trying to get at is that I see this kinda stuff every day in regard to bikers and other regular folks that just do their own thing. There are many, many bikers in prison just because they associated with certain individuals, or were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I suppose that it is too bad that (we) as what we are, aren’t allowed the unlimited funds and ‘celebrity status’ that would allow us to be immune to governmental intrusion.  I really shouldn’t keep going on about this, but I have warned you all before that the regulated media is evil! On the other hand, if you are a celebrity, the regulated media can be your savior. I truly think that M J is a sick freak and a pervert that likes to poke little boys, and  I also believe that O J murdered his wife. At least O J was at one time a football hero, and didn’t bleach his skin, and engage in plastic surgery to the point that he looked like a department store mannequin. This is just my opinion, and I am entitled to it. I expressed this to my guests at the trailer, and surprisingly, they all agreed. I got another beer, and walked outside to collect my thoughts.

I decided that the world as I know it now was just too complicated. As I sipped my beer, I contemplated leaving for a little while, just to clear my head. I walked back inside and announced to my guests that I was going out for a while. I walked into the bedroom, and gathered up a few t-shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans. I threw these items into a bag, kissed the ol lady on the cheek, and headed out the door to my bagger.
In just a matter of seconds I was on the highway headed north with no particular destination in mind. As I rode along, I thought about the recent situations in my life, and disregarded the ones brought to me by the nasty-ass TV in my trailer. As the miles rolled on, my head became clearer, and I remembered that the whole issue did not revolve around the destination. It’s all about the ride.

The next evening, when I attempted to leave my Government sponsored motel room, I was immediately accosted by a duo of Gov-goons, that  made it very clear that I was not to leave the premises, and should remain inside. A quick scan of the parking lot revealed that very same “Airstream” looking RV that the head Cod - Knockers were using for their command post remained. A few of the black Suburbans also appeared to be parked nearby.  “Hey man, you guys said that I couldn’t go home for 24 hours” I stated in a loud tone. “ I wanna go back to my trailer, and be somebody! After all it‘s been more than 24 hours, and I‘m getting cabin fever.” Their reply was simple…. “NO.” “ Alright you fu(#ers, if you’re gonna keep me holed up in this stinkin’ motel for the rest of my life, then you’re gonna hafta  at least get me some of my girls, some more beer, and something other than that cheap-ass pizza that you all have been feeding me up here!” I hollered. One of the goons spoke an unintelligible sentence into his sleeve, and  seconds later, as if by magic, a catering truck pulled up.  A slight framed Chinese looking man exited the driver’s door, and ran to the rear of the truck. There he unloaded a few domed platters, and placed them onto a  cart. I watched as he pushed the cart towards my already opened door. Then I yelled “Hey  Mr. Wong,  I don’t want none of that cream of sum young guy shit!” He was oblivious to my comment and continued to push his cart up the pavement, and then with expertise up and over the slight rise onto the walkway that led to my room. A distinct smell wafted from the containers, that reminded me of something other than Chinese cuisine. It actually smelled like good ol southern cooking! I immediately grabbed one of the domed lids by the handle and lifted it, to expose a huge meatloaf, a large pile of mashed potatoes, some green beans and a ton of cornbread.  But that was only ONE! I looked at the man, and then at the parking lot, where  a large black stretched limo was approaching.  As it stopped, I placed the lid back down on the platter to get a better look at the occupants who at that time were already opening the rear doors. My jaw dropped when I saw three of the most drop-dead gorgeous blondes I had ever seen in my life exiting the limo. As they approached, the caterer snickered, and pushed the cart containing the food inside the room. In a flash he was gone, but I couldn’t really tell, as my bugged out eyes were transfixed on the three beauties that were within a mere few feet of me. I swear they were like super models that only the most rich and famous could ever see, or for that matter touch. “ Gawdammit Man” I hollered out! “I ain’t never…” It was at this time that one of  the Gov-goons made a motion towards me to follow him. Distracted, but curious, I followed him a few yards down from my door. All the time watching as the three beauties strode into my temporary domicile. He began, “look, Mr. Craven” and I immediately responded, “That’s Mr. Moorehead to you dickhead” “Uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Moorehead, Uh, I just thought I would advise you in confidence that these girls, ummm, well these girls that we ummm allegedly supplied you for alleged and or un-official entertainment, on a temporary basis, are uhh, well, they aren’t really - real girls.” I angrily replied “ Whaddya mean!!…. You mean that them is trans-sexuals or homos or something like that…cause if they are, I’m gonna kick yer ass!!” “ Uh, OH NO,  no” he responded, “They are machines. A very sophisticated and totally undetectable clone of human organisms that we have, uhh, allegedly been working on for several years or so. “ “ We just figured that you, being who you are would enjoy being part of the (testing) that we have been doing for a while, and shit, between me and you, I wish I could be in your shoes!”  Hmmmm, I wonder if the guy is trying to be real, or real fu(#ed up at this moment… He continued, “ These particular units are absolutely exact in form and function to real female humans, but lack the ability to have any real emotion or commitment.” “Therefore, they can be anything you want them to be, and you won’t have to deal with any repercussions, or so I’m told.” I once again began scratching my head, trying to figure out what the hell this guy was talking about , and what I really  wanted to do,  so I said, “Just gimme a minute” and walked back into the room.  As I entered, the girls all smiled, and with a wanton look in their eyes summoned me to sit on the bed with them. After a few moments of introduction and conversation, I realized that these were not normal girls, (like I would meet in a bar or restaurant) but were far more beautiful and intelligent than anything I had  ever encountered.  (You know me, I’m up for anything) I knew one thing for sure though. I was gonna get lucky! I politely excused myself, and went back outside to run off the goons. I knew in my mind that these sick fu(#s had already installed cameras and monitoring equipment in my room, and as I locked and bolted the door, I silently vowed to give them a good show.

When I awoke, it seemed that it was days later. It was like I was in some sort of trance, or perhaps another  time dimension  where you don’t really have anything to grasp onto. I distinctly remember that we all enjoyed a lot of  good food , good beer, and fantastic sex. I just can’t remember when it all started.  Or where it all ended for that  matter. I just remember that it was an overall  feeling of well-being.  As I was coming to, I noticed that the girls were all still sleeping, and that gave me an opportunity  to leave the bed without  disturbing them. I departed by the foot, and made my way into the bathroom to do my usual morning thing.  As I lit a cigarette, one of the girls which I had previously named Amy,  began to stir. When she lifted her beautiful head from the pillow, she asked “wouldn’t you like some nice hot coffee Craven?” I replied, “Well hell yeah!”. As she sleepily wandered to the coffee pot,  I thought how lucky I was to be able to say I had just slept with such a fine specimen of female anatomy, whether a “machine” or not. I sat on the edge of the bed, and turned on the TV to check out the local news. There wasn’t any. The Feds made sure of that…. Later as I sipped my coffee, and wondered what would lie in store for the rest of my life, a loud knock came upon the door. The “girls” scampered to make themselves decent, as I arose to meet whatever came this way. I peered through the peephole to see yet another Gov-goon in his dark sunglasses, and tidy black suit, standing ready to pound on the door again, should I not respond in time. I yanked the door open and hollered “ Whadda ya want?”  at the top of my lungs.  “Mr. Moorehead, it’s time for you to return home” he replied. “Well it’s about time!” “I’ve been here for Gawd knows how long  doing nothing while you  assholes have been doing whatever it is you do”… “ You will have a little time to get your stuff together, and then we will allow you to leave” he continued.  I slammed the door, and looked over the bevy of beauties that I would not likely see again, and then peered again out the peephole. The distorted view of the parking lot provided  by the device revealed a motorcycle near the entrance to my room. I assumed that it was my bagger, but I wasn’t able to tell through the peephole. I opened the door.

There to my surprise was a nice new bagger just like mine, but, like, NEW!!  A Gov-goon summoned me forth to advise me that the motorcycle before me was actually mine, and handed me the papers.  I got really kinda un-easy at this point, and looked around to see another one of the G-men approaching. He began speaking but I wasn’t really listening, considering all my good fortune. “Mr. Moorehead, we are truly thankful for your efforts in recovering a key element in our ongoing effort for galactic peace. The device you recovered is paramount in keeping our planet safe, and we are  truly grateful.” I responded “Yeah, well I think you shoulda let me keep the thing, so I coulda sold it for a profit, and made a little money and stuff…” “Not to worry sir”, he replied, “ I’m sure that you will be happy from now on”. He turned and walked away. I hollered “You better let me keep these three girls then!!”  As usual, there was no response, and I was sad as I saw them depart under the protection of even more goons.  They did however wave a loving goodbye.

I straddled the bike and fired her up. What a good feeling, a nice new tight ride, sorta like the few that I had the night (or more) before. I headed out down the highway to the trailer park, and again had the feeling that  for some reason I have had good fortune. Usually these feelings are unfounded however, and always come back to bite me in the ass….  As I rode down the dirt road to my trailer, a weird feeling came upon me. I turned into my lot to see a brand new double-wide sitting in the place where my run-down wreck used to sit. A brand new paved drive and new deck greeted me, and from somewhere, a brand new cable spool sat in my newly landscaped front lawn. Amidst the new sod and plants  was a spherical object that I figured was some sort of Alien communication device. I later learned that it was a “Gazing Ball”, and anyone could buy one just like it at Wal-Mart.  Evidently, the Gov-goons had excavated the entire property and took away my old trailer for evidence, or whatever.  It didn’t matter to me however, and as I got off my new ride, and walked up to the front door, the ol lady greeted me with a passionate kiss. She then handed me some papers that  that goons had left for me in my absence.   The papers contained the usual diatribe regarding the thankfulness and respect they had for me for digging up their precious “lost” hubcap, and also went on to
apologize for not being able to allocate their experimental “human clone girls” to my permanent custody, and further sucking up to me for being a good American and not “talking” about this incident to anyone. At all. No one. Shit, I guess it’s too late. All my true stories are published monthly in Born to Ride Magazine,   and can be viewed at     www.craven-moorehead.com

I hope they don’t find out, but you know the Government. They didn’t even know that the terrorists were gonna attack on 9 - 11.    Yeah, right…… And furthermore, I want my coffee can back!

The next morning, I awoke to find all the girls gone, along with all of my money. I couldn’t imagine what trouble they could get into with a few hundred bucks, but I was wondering what I  was going to do without any dough. Although I live this way all the time. Broke I mean… I estimated that it would be almost a week before I could get any money from my gig at the Longbranch, so I went out to the pole barn to get my shovel. Now…. If I can just remember where I buried that coffee can with the money in it!

After an hour of digging, I was getting pretty hot so I went back to the porch to get a beer from the refrigerator. A quick inventory of the fridge’s contents told me that I would need to re-stock pretty soon. I sat on the edge of the porch trying to remember where that damn can was buried. No worse situation can exist than the no-money no-beer scenario. All these thoughts were running through my head a million miles a minute, and I was starting to smell smoke! Dammit, I think I remember…. But looking at all the little holes in the lot kinda proves otherwise. I DO remember burying some cash out here, you know, for emergency purposes only. Like Y2K, global warming, riots, natural disasters, stuff like that. If I had encrypted some clues and scratched them into the paint somewhere I would have been better off. Or maybe if I had one of those metal detector things, you know, like you see the old dudes at the beach with…. Sheeeit… I’ll have to keep guessing.

About an hour and several holes later, I hit pay dirt. My shovel clunked as it struck a metal object just a foot under the surface. “I found it!” I hollered as if anyone was there to hear. I began digging wildly as I verified that there really was something buried there. But something wasn’t exactly right about this find. The more of the object I uncovered, the more I knew that it wasn’t my precious coffee can. I stopped for a second, took off my hat and scratched my head. “What the hell is this thing?” I thought out loud. I carefully dug around the object to reveal more of the shiny metallic surface. It was round, and shaped like one of those big chrome wheel covers you see on an 18 wheeler. I tapped it vigorously with the point of my shovel, but it didn’t bend or mar, and it returned a very dense sound kinda like when you beat on the water storage tank for your well. You know how it is, chrome shit always intrigues us bikers, and since this piece was real shiny, and sorta weird looking, I kept on with the task of extricating it from the soil. A short time later I was convinced that it really was a large chrome wheel cover, but it was in my opinion larger in diameter than any truck wheel accessory that I had ever seen. I stuck the point of my shovel under one edge of the thing and pried up on it. Although it was quite large it seemed to weigh nothing. I reached down in the hole and grabbed it by the edge, and heaved it up onto the pile of dirt. “Dammit man!” I said to myself as I again scratched my head… “What the fu(# is this thing??” I got up and rolled the object to the porch for further inspection (and another beer). After a few minutes and a few sips, I got a real nervous feeling about my find. I’ll tell ya, I’ve seen some of those science fiction movies where they depict a flying saucer hovering over a town and destroying it with a death ray, you know, that buzz  and zap thing. Well, this gizmo was exactly like that, with the exception of the little wires that (you weren’t supposed to see) that suspended the thing in the movie. I went to the trailer to get a screwdriver. You know I HAD to pry the thing open!  Then I thought about it for a second. If this was simply a movie prop, no problem. And if it was a real alien space thingie, well, STILL no problem because if there were any gooey green and gray space dudes inside, they couldn’t be any bigger that a swamp toad, and hell they’d have to be dead, ‘cause the thing must have been buried there for years!

I finished my beer and tossed the empty at the disk, just to see what would happen. The bottle glanced off the top, and landed on the porch with a thud. I then attacked the thing with the screwdriver. There were a few distinct openings along the edge so I started there. I pried on one of the openings with no result. I spun the disc around to reveal more openings and again pried on them. I mean it wasn’t like there were any instructions on it as to how it came apart. I broke the screwdriver clean off at the handle in one of the openings. I cussed the thing, and went to the truck to get the tire tool. Back on the porch I stood on the disk and shoved the tire tool inside one of the holes. I pried like hell, but the lid wouldn’t budge. I was surprised when I looked at the tool and saw that it had slightly bent from my effort to open the object. I was disappointed when I realized that the tire tool was now stuck in the stupid disk. I kicked the thing expecting it to go sailing across the yard, but I kinda froze up when it didn’t move, and at about the same time the twinge of pain came across my toes, I gasped in awe as a few of the little holes began to glow. In a mere matter of seconds the disk began to spin around and around in circles, faster and faster, and as it did it began to wobble sorta like a bottle cap does when you flip it onto a concrete floor. In the same matter of seconds I had already jumped off the porch and started running like hell for cover. A good thing too. The momentum from the disk spinning released the tire tool from the opening and it stuck a foot deep in the skin of the trailer. The screwdriver on the other hand was no longer visible, so I stayed behind the bed of the truck for a while to see what would happen next. A few seconds later the disk released a puff of smoke, and wobbled back down on the porch. “Ha! Screw you - you overgrown hub-cap lookin’ piece of shit!” I yelled at the disk. It however did not respond to my insult. I saw that the remainder of the screwdriver was still stuck in the little hole, so I grabbed a broom handle from the truck and proceeded over to the porch to poke the thing. It didn’t respond to that stimuli either, so I gave it a good whap on the head with the handle. Still no response, but I did notice that it was still glowing in a few places.

I cautiously got another beer from the fridge as I watched the “lights” glowing on the motionless object. I drug up a milk crate and sat down contemplating what I was going to do with the thing. “I’ll bet Ol’ Grady would buy this thing” I thought, but then I thought maybe I could drag it over to NASA or someone else for a higher bid. It ain’t like there is a “used space junk” dealership anywhere around here. All I knew was that it had to be worth something to somebody!

I heard a strange rumbling sound and I looked up to see a black helicopter hovering over the trailer park. Its dull nose pointed right at me, as I cautiously stepped off the porch. I looked over at the disk and then at the helicopter, and then at the swarm of black Suburbans rolling down the road. A herd of dudes in black suits and sunglasses approached me as I leaned on my pickup swigging my beer. One of them (who appeared to be the leader) snipped “Where did you find that thing?” I pointed my cigarette like a gun to the hole in the yard. A team of guys in space-man looking silver suits rushed over to the hole with some gizmos in their hands, as another team of similarly clad men picked up my disk with a robotic lawn mower looking device with arms. “Hey man” I hollered at them “Don’t mess with my hub cap!!” “Sir, that object is Government property, and we will have to take it with us” quipped the G-Man. “Fu(# you dude, that thing is MINE, cause I dug it up right here on my property!”  I replied. “You will have to come along with us for a de-briefing”  he said. I leaned in a little closer to his face and replied “ I ain’t goin NOWHERE with you faggots, and besides man, I wear BOXERS!” At about that time 2 or 3 of the other black suit guys kinda picked me up as I was kicking and screaming obscenities, and dragged me to one of the black SUVs. “Aright you fu(#ers, if your gonna play rough, and yer gonna steal my property, then you’re GONNA  have to stop at the Quik-Mart and buy me a 12 pack!” I yelled to the driver. I watched the robo-arm lawnmower as it loaded my disk into a military vehicle that looked like a low-rider garbage truck.   As we sped out of the park all my neighbors were staring at the impressive number of Government “doers” doing whatever it is they do when they do what they were doing today. I was surprised when the stuffy G-Man stopped at the Quik-Mart and another returned with a small Styrofoam cooler full of Bud.  He stuffed it in the center of the rear seat through the opposite window. I reached in a grabbed a cold one, and offered one to the other Gov-goon in the back seat next to me. No response. We drove to the local motel where I was loaded into a shiny Airstream looking motor-home along with my beer. After a few hours of being questioned by the head Cod-Knockers, they rented me a room, got me some more beer and a Pizza, and told me not to go home for 24 hours. I rebuked them with the fact that I damn sure wasn’t goin nowhere since they stranded me in a stinkin’ motel 15 miles from home! They wouldn’t be specific, but I had apparently dug up some sort of un-manned space probe thing, that either came from here on earth, or perhaps another planet. I will never know for sure, but the truth is out there…………

I lead an interesting life, and I have had a lot of commentary regarding my lifestyle, and beliefs. It’s not such a bad thing to be like me, and some of you may already be this way and not even realize it!

In the interest of science and public service, I have devised a little test to see if you are truly like me, and a select few others that are positively “Trailer Trash“.

Take this quiz now to see how you rate. I made it simple enough for everyone! All the answers are either “Yes” or “No”. If you can’t read, ask one of your friends to read the test to you while they record the results, and remember you score one extra point if you really can’t read!
( I personally scored a 21!)

1. Did your Junior or Senior Prom have daycare?

2. Do you have to go outside to get a beer from the fridge?

3. Have you been married three times and still have the same in-laws?

4. Have you ever lit a match in your bathroom and had your house explode right off its wheels?

5. Does the Halloween pumpkin on your front porch have more teeth than you or your significant other?

6. Do you think that the last four words to the Star Spangled Banner are, “gentlemen, start your engines.”?

7. Do you think that loading the dishwasher means getting your Ol’ Lady drunk?

8. Does your toilet paper have words and numbers on it?

9. Do you think that Iraq is a word describing a woman‘s large breasts?

10. Do you think that a girl who is “out of your league” bowls at the Bowl-arama on a different night?

11. Do you think that Genitalia is the name of an Italian airline?

12. Has your Ol’ Lady’s hairdo ever been ruined by a ceiling fan?

13. Do you go to your own family reunion looking for a date?

14. Was one of your kids born in the bed of your pickup?

15. Do you let your 13 year old daughter smoke at the dinner table in front of her kids?

16. Have you ever been unable to marry your sweetheart because there’s a law against it?

17. Was your school fight song Dueling Banjos?

18. Do you have Confederate flag as a curtain in your home?

19. Do you think Dom Perignon is a Mafia leader?

20. Do you have flowers  planted in a bathroom fixture in your front yard?

TEST SCORING:

1-3 If you answered “yes” to one to three questions you most likely have no hope of being recognized as Trailer Trash. You are more than likely a RUBBIE however!

4-10 By answering “yes” to anywhere from four to ten answers, you have a 65% chance of becoming recognized in your community as Trailer Trash. You are one pink flamingo on your lawn or one junk truck in the driveway of your lot from gaining the title!

11-15 “Yes” answers. You are without a doubt a (Confederate) flag bearer for the Trailer Trash establishment in your community! You undoubtedly own a double stacked, double wide trailer for which you are the envy of everyone in your own little “park” of the world!

16-20 “Yes” responses would indicate that you are DEFINITELY Trailer Trash, and you proudly go where very few men, women, or aliens have ever gone before! You enjoy the finer yet simple pleasures of life without the distractions of low-carb diets, e-mail viruses, cell phone babble and unnecessary trips to the grocery store! You have arrived and understand the true peace that your lifestyle can bring! Your many cousins, sisters, brothers, sister in-laws, brother in-laws, grandma’s, grandpa’s, fathers and mothers are proud to call you their own. Hell, you’re probably my neighbor!!

When I left you, my dedicated readers last month, I was faced with an unexplainable dilemma. Here before me just inches away from the chicken wire mesh that surrounds the stage at the Longbranch, were the Ol Lady, Christi, Paula, and some other broad that I didn’t know sitting on barstools with beer bottles in their hands. As you will remember, the very night before I somehow accidentally or allegedly had a meaningful overnight relationship with Christi, and myself and the rest of the band were sure that the quartet of females had certainly approached the stage area to cause some sort of bodily harm to either all of us, or more particularly, just me. The air was thick with anticipation and uncertainty (not to mention cigarette smoke) for a very short period of time, which to all involved seemed like an eternity. That’s when it happened……

The four femme fatales jumped up on the bottom rungs of their stools and began hollering in unison, and almost in harmony “Craven … Sing us a song”  over and over again. This caused a reaction form the rest of the drunken crowd who were already way over the legal limit, and some of them joined in with “sing us a motherfu(#in something you bastards “  while several dozen others began the late night ritual of tossing empty longnecks at the chicken wire. As the shards of glass and backwash sprayed the stage and dance floor, the girls became agitated from the fallout. As we began a rendition of  David Allen Coe’s “Finger Fu(#in Sally” all hell broke loose! When the bottles, fists and teeth started flying, I observed the girls wield their respective stools at the combative patrons on the now cluttered dance floor. It was amazing! This was WAY beyond the mosh-pit action I have seen at the punk bars over in Ybor! As I continued to sing, I watched as drunken participants careened into neighboring tables, only to be finished off by other customers, and the approaching mob of bouncers. By the time the song ended the rowdies were dispatched, and the place was about half empty. Not to worry though, the girls had refilled their beers, and returned to their positions in front of the stage.  I’m not sure whether this was lucky for me or not. I mean, they could have been ejected with the rest of the crowd, and I wouldn’t have had to deal with the wrath of the Ol Lady until sometime the next afternoon when I woke up. Or maybe not….

At last call we packed up our stuff and headed out the rear loading door of the saloon. I was wondering how I was going to get all my gear loaded up on the bagger when a pristine condition late 80’s custom van with a four wheel drive conversion  roared up into the loading area behind the building. I watched as the heavily tinted window rolled down to reveal the Dolly Parton hairdoo chick in the driver’s seat, and Paula riding shotgun. “Hey Craven” she shouted, “You need a ride?” I quickly looked over at the bagger, and then back at my equipment, and then once again at the van. “Well, yeah, I suppose so, that is if you can haul me and all my shit” I replied. “Sure thing honey, just throw all that stuff in the side door, and were outta here!” I said “Yeah, OK” and went around to open the door. When I slid the door open,  much to my surprise I was greeted by the Ol Lady and Christi. Even more surprising was the appearance of the interior of the “van” which looked more like a VIP room at a Gentleman’s club, or perhaps a rolling porn palace. I wasn’t sure, but I knew one thing…. There was some sort of conspiracy going on with these girls, and I was the subject of their plot. Feeling pretty good after a successful night of performing, and  not intimidated by the weirdness of the situation, I tossed my gear in the door. “we’ll get this stuff” Christi said as I watched her and the Ol lady store my amp and guitar case under the “bed” in the back of the van.  I remembered that I had to do something with my bike, so I rolled it inside the overhead door and into the storage area.  I knew it would be safe inside this room, as I knew the owner and his staff, and in the past we had stored certain things overnight for each other. I went back to the van, and jumped in the side door.  I was greeted with a cold Bud, and a snicker from the Ol Lady and Christi. Thinking that this may be the ride from hell, I said “Well, I guess you gals  worked things out between yourselves”.  They sorta looked at each other and then at me, and Christi replied “Yeah, we kinda have something in common” The Ol Lady chimed in with “You remember when you and me and Bob’s girls did that thing back at the trailer?” Remember?? Hell, I’m still nursing a groin ache form that month!  I don’t know what these girls are thinking. I mean, it’s like usually the Ol Lady gets pissed when I slip up and do something with some other girl. That is, unless she is involved! But for me, once again it was too late. I just sighed and leaned back as the van rolled on, and the girls removed my jeans. Poor ole naïve me, thinking that they just wanted to hear me sing.  I suppose I should  have been working for UPS, delivering oversize packages or something. I just don’t know…..

By the time I got back to the trailer, I seriously needed a shower and a few hours sleep.  I didn’t really know if it was Sunday or Monday, and at this point in my life, I didn’t really care. I snubbed  the girls as I retired to the “Master Suite” in my mobile home and enlisted my mandatory relaxation requirement.  When I awakened, I strolled out to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I looked out the window and the long shadows cast on the lot told me that it was late afternoon. An hour or so later I went out to enjoy the last remaining rays of sunlight, and collect my thoughts. My neighbor Bill came out to the yard to rap, and after while I asked him if he would give me a ride out to the Longhorn to retrieve my bike. He agreed and we set out in his red Toyota Tundra.

It had been raining a lot here lately, and some of the lower areas were still somewhat flooded. It was getting dark as we rode down the main highway into town. The radio was blasting our favorite country station as we talked shit, and sipped beers. The main highway was (as usual) moving slowly, and Bill was getting  annoyed by a slow moving Buick in our lane. As he pulled out to pass, the Buick slowed down and pulled off to the shoulder . As Bill looked back, we went into a flooded area on the road. I really don’t know how fast we were going but I do remember that the truck began hydroplaning  and moments later we were upside down in a very large drainage ditch along the side of the road.  As the cab of the truck filled with water, I struggled to escape through the passenger window. Luckily for both of us, the AC wasn’t working in the truck, and the windows were down. After fighting my way out of the window, I swam straight up and surfaced . As you ride down the road, you never even think of, or even realize how big these ditches are, that is until you end up swimming in one. This experience is especially striking when they are swelled to the max with runoff. I swam to the bank and began to climb up to the grass near the side of the road. I cussed as I slipped and fell back into the ditch. I finally climbed back out and sat down on the bank.  “Gawdammit Bill, you alright” I hollered toward the abyss. “Glub blub -spit- uhhh….Yeah, I’m Ok” he replied. I helped him up out of the nasty-ass water, and we both looked at each other and laughed like hell! “Sheeit, my truck” he yelled, and I thought for a moment, and hollered “Oh nooo…. What about the BEER??”. We both looked at each other again, and dove back into the water to get the cooler. Later, we sat on the bank near the road sipping beer  and watched as the tow truck driver used his winch to pull the severely damaged pickup from the deep. Of course Bill had to dive back into the canal to hook up the cable. Once loaded up, the seeping  wreck provided a trail of water all the way to the bar. Because Bill had something called Triple A, the driver agreed to bring him back to the trailer park and dump off his deep-sea diving truck. I on the other hand had gained access to the bagger at the bar, and headed back down the highway to the same destination .

I pulled into the lot at the trailer, and  got off the bike. Still soggy, I sloshed inside and began the task of removing my wet boots and clothes. I carefully checked to be sure that the girls were not planning yet another surprise attack, and  got into the shower.  Man it’s always something!

Later, Bill and I discussed the evenings happenings over a few cold beers by a nice warm fire. A hearty rumbling down the road soon revealed the approach of the very same van, and the very same occupants from the night before. Some day soon I suppose that I will rise above all this. Until then, I would like to leave you with a few very important thoughts:

The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.  Drinking provides a beautiful excuse to pursue the one activity that truly gives me pleasure - hooking up with hot girls and drinking more beer.
I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day. People demand freedom of speech to make up for the freedom of thought which they avoid. What lies behind us and what lies before us, are only small matters compared to what lies within us. Sleep is an excellent way of listening to an opera. Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo. I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is yet another matter. Victory goes to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake. A positive attitude will not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort.

I can’t think of anything else, so until next month, SPEED SAFELY!!

Editors note:  Craven’s graphic description of his sexual escapade with his little friend from the restaurant has  been deleted from this story. We at Born to Ride Magazine feel that it is our duty to do our best to keep family values, and bring our readers the finest in literature, features and events coverage.  After reviewing the first few paragraphs, most of the staff members (both male and female) either left the office for parts unknown, or spent extended amounts of time in the restrooms, or possibly the coat closet. Although we truly believe in the tenet regarding freedom of speech, we also reserve the right to exclude our advertisers and readers from some of the most un-fu(#ing-believably HOT porn we have ever read! If you want this type of excitement  (and aren’t suffering from a heart condition) you certainly should purchase Craven’s forthcoming book. Again, thanks for reading Born to Ride, and if you will, please excuse me while I go look for my coat.
R.G.

We were awakened by a very loud  BANG BANG BANG noise. It sounded like gunfire, but was more muffled and directed to the front door of Christi’s trailer. It seemed just moments before when I was hearing the sweet sounds of her expressing the undying lust that she had for me, and my unit, which had just rearranged her insides. Actually, it was probably several hours later, and through the haze that filled my head, I was able to figure out that we had passed out on the armless couch she calls a day bed shortly after the romantic encounter  that happened the night before. More Loud noises and hollering outside the door prompted me to pull my pants back on, and seek my .380 that usually resides in my back pocket. For some reason, I remembered that I had left the piece in the pickup truck. That was a serious mistake, I thought when I saw Christi running back towards me with an old axe handle. “Here, take this” she said, as she shoved the handle in my hands, “ It’s probably my ol man out there. I forgot to tell ya I changed the locks so his dumb ass couldn’t get back in!”. I took the handle to the front door, unlocked it and flung it open. Much to my surprise, I wasn’t met with an angry dude. Instead, I was my own VERY pissed blonde ol lady with a familiar large kitchen knife in her hand. To make matters worse, Paula was standing behind her with an empty 1800 malt liquor bottle. I quickly slammed the door shut and bolted it. “Shit you was wrong about that!” I exclaimed. “Never mind” she said. “ I will take care of these bitches, just beat it out the back door!”
I handed  the axe handle back to her and exited the rear of the trailer. As I snuck around the side of the trailer I overheard Christi hollering that she was gonna pop a cap in somebody’s ass if they didn’t take off. While this diversion was happening, I scoped out my escape route, and noticed that my pickup had at least two flat tires. I imagined that the ol lady had intentionally flattened the tires with the sizeable edged weapon that she was brandishing, and immediately focused my attention on Paula’s ‘69 mustang that was still idling  near the driveway by my truck. I had to move fast. As the ol lady and Paula continued to argue and holler with Christi, I ran like hell to the antique Mustang and jumped in. I slammed the shifter into first and dumped the clutch cranking the wheel hard to the right to avoid smashing my own truck. The aging 289 roared to life and the balding tires dug ruts a foot deep in the freshly mowed weeds. I headed out the driveway to the hard road, still trying to remember what I was thinking when I originally embarked on this mission.

As I headed down the highway to my trailer, My thoughts were mostly about damage control. What the heck was I gonna do with the situation that was sure to meet me at home, and what was I gonna do with the other situation at Christi’s. When I arrived at my trailer, I immediately checked out the bike to be sure that no injury was inflicted to her. A quick inspection of the house yielded the same conditions that I had left the previous night. Everything seemed to be in place and as messed up as usual, so I grabbed a beer from the icebox and headed back out to the yard to decide what I needed to do. I heard a strange sound. It was like a phone ringing, but I was not familiar with it, as I haven’t had a telephone for years. I tracked the sound to the Mustang, where I discovered in my denim jacket, a very small device which I identified as one of those new-fangled cell phone things. As it continued to make that annoying “ringing” noise, I contemplated what it would take to answer the call. I’m no idiot, so I pushed the  little green button and began hollering “hello, hello”. A familiar voice in the speaker said “ Hey Craven!” “Look, it’s Christi and your ol lady and her friend just left and they ain’t real happy”. “Imagine that” I said. She said “Look, you probably need to stay away from yer house for a little while, and I gotta go to work, so why don’t you come by the restaurant and let’s talk”. I said “Ok, but how the heck did I end up with this phone?” She replied, “ I just stuck it in your  jacket so I could get in touch with you, and you can keep it if you want to”. “Alright, I will meet you down there in a little while, and see what’s up”. I stuck the little phone in my pocket and headed to the bagger. I figured the best thing to do with the Mustang, was to leave it at the trailer so Paula wouldn’t try to get me arrested for GTA. (Grand Theft of Antiques)

I carefully checked the parking lot and entrance of Mom’s Diner as I pulled in. Seeing no threats from the ol lady or law enforcement I casually walked inside. Upon entering, I saw my old pal Cletus sitting at a table stuffing his face with a double cheeseburger. “Hey Craven, you’re just the man I was looking to talk to” he said. “Didya hear about ol Bruce gettin shot? “Naw, I didn’t” I answered. “Well he was porkin’ Johnny’s ol lady and stuff, and the sombitch come in the bar one night and shot his ass in the laig!”  “No shit!” I replied. “Well, yeah, and now we ain’t got no lead git-tar player, and you know we got the house gig at the Longbranch, and well heck, I was wonderin if you wanted to come and sit in till he gets back on his feet”.  I said, “ Well I dunno, I had to hock my Strat, and amp and stuff a while back, and I ain’t got no money to get my shit outta the pawn shop”. “ I would really like to, and gawd knows I could use the money, but”… at that moment I was interrupted by that same familiar voice from the cell phone thing. Christi chimes in “I would LOVE to hear you play me a song or two, so I will go get your guitar and amp outta hock.”  “That is if you promise to sing for me!” “Uh, ok, I said“… All the while I’m thinking that there must be some kind of conspiracy going on.   In my life there usually is.

The Longbranch Saloon resembles one of those places you read about in old western fiction novels. Only with a modern twist. I swear the inside of the joint looks almost exactly like “Bob’s Country Bunker” from that old Blues Brothers movie. An eclectic clientele frequents the joint. Mostly cowboys, rednecks migrant farm workers, and of course bikers.   Normally, I don’t come here (because the beer prices are too high in my opinion) and was shocked to see that the owners had actually installed chicken wire across the front of the stage.  Nevertheless, I strolled across the dance floor to the door on the side of the stage. I was met by a familiar sight. My old Fender Stratocaster leaned up against my Super Reverb amp. The gear looked just like it did when I hocked it almost a year ago. I was surprised and pleased and vowed secretly to never be separated from my stuff again.

Around 9:00 PM the bar manager summoned us from the back stage dressing room  (actually a storage room) where we were enjoying a case of Bud which we had iced down in an old mop bucket. The stage “lights” were already on, and as we picked up our instruments the rowdy crowd began hooting and whistling, and of course yelling obscenities. No rehearsal was ever required with this band, because every song was either and old southern rock tune or straight up classic country. The first set flew by as quickly as the several beer bottles that exploded on the chicken wire screen. It was just a usual night at this bar, where the two-step turns into the four-fist, and the bouncers and doormen work hard to keep the peace, and the floor mopped.

It had to be about midnight and we were right in the middle of our second performance of “Your Cheatin Heart” when I saw a dreadful sight. Four figures wading through the dance floor full of slow-draggers each with a wooden barstool in their hand. As they got closer, through the smoke, I identified each as the ol lady, Paula, Christi, and some other chick with tight jeans and a Dolly Parton hairdo. Cletus gave me a worried look as he moaned out the words to the last verse.  To our relief, instead of  pounding their way through the chicken wire to get to the stage, they plopped their asses down on the barstools directly in front of me. Their motive was unknown for a brief moment, and the guys in the band started getting a little nervous, as Cletus leaned toward my ear and quietly suggested we take a break, and retreat to our backstage “dressing” room for another round of beer. They all looked at me as I surveyed the four girls for weapons, or other threats. They appeared to only be armed with beer bottles, and since they were half full, I doubted that they would waste that expensive beer on us, and besides, everyone knows that qualifies as alcohol abuse! That’s when it happened…….

While I was away on my Mexican vacation, my faithful attorney was able to get the criminal assault charges dropped from the incident at the junk yard. This of course came at the cost of a promissory note signed in blood regarding ownership of my first born son, and titles to the last two pieces of my personal property.  There were other considerations and sanctions but I won’t bore you, my dedicated readers with the gory details. As it were, enough problems arose recently to give me the realization that the adage “A wooden bed is better than a golden coffin” makes a lot of sense. I was thinking about writing a book of my favorite sayings when I realized that I was running out of grocery sacks to write on, and most of my crayon supply had  melted from the fire at the trailer. Reality sucks, but in my case “everything you can imagine is real”.

Actually, I was at the time writing an informational and educational  book entitled “The Care and Feeding of Blondes”  subtitled: “and why you should have one as a pet” I was sure it would be a best seller, but you all know how I think! Here’s are some excerpts from the original transcript:

Blondes as a breed,  have historically been overlooked as house pets due to age old misconceptions regarding their raucous behavior, incurable jealousy, and an unexplainable tendency to attack their owners. They have also been fabled to be excessive spenders and in some cases been known to mate with other breeds….. - But with proper training, nurturing and care, a Blonde can be a dedicated, loyal loving pet that will provide years of  satisfaction to it’s owner…… - As a Blonde’s master, you must take into consideration the breed’s  genetic defects associated with their learning and reasoning capabilities, and make generous compensations when exerting discipline, especially when practicing reward vs. punishment style training…… - Don’t just casually throw a treat to your Blonde, or you will end up with an uncontrollable, wild or “Feral Blonde” such as Paris Hilton……

I suppose I should stop now, before I give away all the secrets contained in this volume. Look for the release of this book soon at Amazon .com or at your favorite local book store. But as usual, I digress…..

When I arrived home, I was met with yet another problem. It seems that while I was gone, my favorite pet Blonde (the  ol lady) had accidentally set fire to the kitchen. At first, it appeared that at least one third of the house had been destroyed, but after a careful inspection the damage appeared to be more cosmetic than structural. That was a good thing, because I didn’t want to do any repair work at that moment. I wanted to drink beer!

Drinking is how I get all my inspiration, strength and ingenious ideas. Most people just do it to get drunk. To me, it’s more like a religious experience, and at the peak of the event, I get to see visions or get signs of things that the great Lord of Lager wants me to do. It’s kinda like hearing voices, only with pictures, and other sounds, all melded together with a real sense of tranquility and peace. Yeah,  it’s like a dream-state filled with all the peaceful visions that anyone could…… “Gawdammit Craven! Ya passed out on the friggin milk crate again!!” I heard, as I hit the floor. Hmmmm, this ain’t supposed to be part of the dream. “When are ya gonna get off yer ass and get a job or something!” Through my blurry eyes, I look up and find the ol’ lady standin over me with her hands on her hips and a nasty scowl on her face. Hell, I’ve only been home for a few hours.  This however is a scenario I have survived before, and as I rolled over on my elbow to get up, I spilled the rest of my (warm) beer on the shag carpet. As she continued to holler, I glanced at the clock and noticed it was 8:15. Was it AM or PM?  I wasn’t really sure. As I came to, the light shining through the clear plastic bags we use for window replacement led me to believe that it was AM. Apparently, I was right.

I walked outside to take a leak, and the cool breeze and bright sunshine assured me that I was being greeted by a beautiful southern morning. It seemed quiet around the trailer for some reason. I remembered that uncle Bob had in my absence removed his girls and the famous SUV from the park, and for some reason the dog seemed to be calmer than usual. These feelings were not normal, but they were nice for a change. And being outside hearing the wind blow gently through the pines sorta gave me a feeling of well being. One I hadn’t felt in years. Wow! I wondered for a moment if I had died and went to trailer park heaven.

That notion immediately left my mind as I saw  the electric company guys coming down the road  to remove the meter from our pole, and simultaneously, the ol’ lady smacked me in the shoulder with a stack of bills that she had wrapped up with a large rubber band. I read the several dozen pages of crap as she began to ramble on about what an asshole I was and how I neglected to take care business around the house.  As I watched the power guys cautiously get out of their truck with small caliber handguns, I thought about the last few times when the same dudes showed up to do their deed, and were met with a less than cordial greeting. This time, I just let them take the meter, and watched as they drove away at a high rate of speed. One of them already had the cast off his arm, and the other’s bruises had apparently healed. No need to have another standoff with the local authorities,  who try to do their best to support the corporate bloodsuckers without statutory support. What a bunch of losers, I thought as I wandered toward the shed to retrieve the shunts I had fashioned to replace the meter’s connection to the power main. I reconnected the juice, and wandered back inside to get my jacket.

Still feeling great, I fired up the bagger, and headed out to the hard road towards town. Not much happens around here, and the area seems to get smaller and smaller in population as the months and years drag on. Sometimes I wonder if it would be better for us to move to the big city, and forget about all the freedom that the country life provides.  Hell, the “big” city ain’t but 12 or 15 miles away, and it’s sometimes risky heading back home from a good night of hell raising and such, especially with a good drunk on. But life here drags on.

I stopped at Mom’s Diner for my morning cup of coffee. Again, something was pleasantly different. “Hey Craven, you want your usual?” As I looked around to see where the syrupy, sing-song voice came from, I was surprised to see Christi standing there with a steaming cup of coffee and a huge bowl of grits with scrambled eggs and cheese. As she slid them on the table, I thought to myself out loud  “sheeit, what happened here?” I never remembered her being so nice, or looking so good for that matter….  Hell, I’ve been coming here for years, and uh…..  “I need to talk to you about something Craven” she cooed. “Yeah, so what’s up?”  I replied. “Well, I’m gonna lose my property to the County if I don’t get a few things fixed up around my place pretty quick, and ol’ Grady said you was pretty handy with a hammer and stuff, and umm”…. I interrupted her in mid sentence with “ Whaddya got, a code violation or something?” “Well yeah, and they wanna, ummm,  well they already gave me a ticket and stuff like that, so I gotta do something real quick, or else they are gonna try to put a lien on my trailer or somethin!” So I said,  “Yeah, those Fu(#in bastards never quit! I’ve had my share of run-ins with em”. It was then that I got one of those religious experiences that I referred to earlier, when she said, “You know, I got a bunch of money, and my sorry ass ol man is still out of town, and I would be willing to pay you well to get all the stuff straightened out, I mean, if ya wanna!”   “Hell yeah” I shouted, “Lets just go see what’s gotta get done, and all that, and while yer at it wouldya mind getting  me another cup of mud?“. “No problem” she replied, “and I can get the rest of the day off, cause this place is dead anyhow”…. As I watched her strut back to the kitchen, I again thought about how pleasing this portion of my day was going. After I finished my third cup, I noticed that there was no “guest check” left at my table, and I was summoned to the door by a freshly painted fingernail. Evidently, my tab had been paid, and I was supposed to follow her somewhere. Something’s gotta be wrong  I thought, but hey, I got nothing to lose!

I fired up the bagger, and followed her just a few miles down the road to her trailer. When I arrived, I saw the usual conditions that are visible around these parts. This and that part of the trailer out of joint, yard grown up with winter weeds, shit laying here and there, nothing unusual. “Them County code guys said I have to get  all this stuff cleaned up and mow the yard, and fix the skirt, and”….  I interrupted her again, and said, “ So, you got some money, huh?” She replied, “Well, yeah! Sure I do!” “Look honey, I’m gonna need about $500.00 or so to start, and when I get done I will need some more, I’m sure.” I had to control my jaw from dropping to my chest as she opened her purse, and fanned out six crisp one hundred dollar bills. “Look. Here’s some cash to get you started, and if you get it done quick enough, there will be a lot more.” I just can’t see givin these County bastards any money, or seein them take away my place, just cause I can’t do all this stuff myself!” “ Not a problem” I replied, “And I will see you in a little while!”

I waved goodbye as I jumped on the bike and hauled ass down the driveway, leaving a rooster tail of dirt and dust. On the ride back to the trailer, I again got a vision of my unusual good fortune, what tools I would need to complete this task, and imagined what fringe benefits may be available to me, working for such a curvaceous contractor.

I skidded to a stop near the front steps, where the ol lady was sitting, sharpening a very large kitchen knife. Her friend Paula from lot 104 was sitting there with her, looking as mean and slutty as ever. I approached the pair with my new found fortune in my hand, and said “look, I got some dough, so why don’t y’all run down and pay all them bills you got, and  I’ll give Paula $5.00 for gas money”. The ol’ lady seemed surprised as I handed her four of those crisp hundreds, and all of a sudden, she appeared to be in a good mood. Things looked to be getting even better! They were giggling and whispering  something as they ran off to Paula’s car. “Don’t forget to pick me up a 12 pack!“ I hollered. I immediately began gathering tools, and supplies needed to do the job over at Christi’s, and started loading them into my old pickup. I knew there was more money to come soon, but I had diligently stashed  two hundred away, so I could go enjoy myself at the bars later on in the evening.

Then, as usual in my life, reality again reared it‘s ugly head. I had forgotten that I had traded away my tractor in the “Christmas Junk Yard Fiasco“. Christi’s joint was probably close to two acres in size, and I didn’t have a working mower since the tractor was gone. I sure as hell couldn’t go down to Grady’s and rent  something, cause I wasn’t really on his “good list” at this particular moment. I had to think of something fast, so I could get the job done, and collect the profits.

I wasn’t about to try to borrow or steal  a push mower. The yard was just too big over there for my lazy ass to spend all day shoving a 40 pound mower through 3 foot tall weeds. Then as happened earlier in the day, I had one of those revelations of the spiritual kind.  Another fantastic invention came to mind. I quickly grabbed the old rusty reel mower from the scrap pile, and grabbed an old bicycle with a broken front fork. I threw the two items into the pole barn, and raced over to Jeb’s shed to temporarily borrow his buzz-box welder. 45 minutes and 2 beers later I had fashioned the perfect “Redneck Riding Lawnmower” by affixing the remainder of the reel mower to the front end of the bicycle. Although at first, this combination was ungainly, after a few quick laps around the yard I was certain that much profit could be made, and heck, it was easier than pushing! I loaded the device in the pickup, and headed down the road.

Later that evening, as I sat on Christie’s front porch drinking a cold beer, I again reveled at my good fortune. Beer, money, and the satisfaction of a good day’s work are all things that assuredly all men can enjoy. Just when I thought things couldn’t get better, I hear the trailer door open, and turn to see her standing in the threshold with the world’s shortest mini-skirt, a cold 6 pack in a bucket with ice, and a fresh pack of left-handed Marlboros. Y’all have a month to figure out what happens next…….

My escape from Florida was a blur of misery combined with regret, plus the underlying urgency to escape incarceration. In simple terms, I was a fugitive of justice.  As my faithful readers will recall, I was being sought by the local authorities for my  Christmas shoplifting spree at Grady’s junk yard, just a few days before the Christmas holiday. With the local constables circling the trailer park like buzzards, I had to devise a plan to escape without detection. This would be difficult however, because the local constables had enlisted the aid of some vacationing Federal turds who wanted to try out their new GPS enabled heat-seeking  tracking devices. As I hid in the neighbors sheds, and under some of the nearby trailers, I came up with a plan that would give me flight from the impending doom that I faced.  All plans aren’t as simple as this one, but somehow, and probably purely by luck this one worked!

I had the ol lady and the girls set up a diversion by setting fire to a large pile of privacy fence that the neighbors at lot 104 had stashed near the road. Just before the Fire Department arrived and as the fire raged, my brother Mark entered the park with his enclosed race car hauler. Because it is aluminum, the GPS heat seekers wouldn’t be able to see inside the unit. He managed to get the rig into our lot, load up the bagger, my gear and a case of beer as the authorities focused on putting out the fire. As he rolled back out of our park, I jumped into the side door for the long ride to the state line. After a few dozen miles, I  realized why motorcycles don’t like to ride in trailers. No suspension. I mean, yeah, they got springs and stuff under there, but you can’t tell when you’re trapped inside with nothing to sit on but an old greasy tool box, or a used Hoosier tire. Imagine how bad it is for your bike, being tied down to the floor inside one of these things. Needless to say it’s a bumpy ride. My plight worsened as I realized that the beer was also being agitated by the bumpy ride. With only 22 beers left, I began to figure the minimum daily adult requirement of Bud for a six hour hell ride. At the rate they were foaming up, we may need  to make a pit-stop. That need would be impossible to impart to my driver though, as I neglected to get the handheld CB radio from the trailer before we split, so I had no communication to the truck cab from the hauler.   Alone inside the dark aluminum box with only my thoughts, my bike, and a few beers, I realized that the worst thing you can do to your motorcycle is to haul it inside one of these things.

Time passed, and as I navigated my enclosure with my Mini Mag Lite, I found an old tarp and some shipping blankets which I fashioned into a sort of chair.  As we bounced along,  I tried to imagine how many hours or minutes had passed. The only way I could figure time was by how many beers I had consumed. By the time I realized 6 beers were gone, I had a another problem. Where to pay the rent. This issue was easily resolved when I discovered an empty fuel can inside the hauler. I could fill this thing up and then dump it out the side door as we went along. Or, I could just leave it in there and the next time Mark went to the track, he could pour it into his race car and more than likely win the feature! The humming of the radial tires combined with  the roar of the dual exhaust from the truck eventually got to me, and I kinda went to sleep for a few minutes. Maybe it was just the lack of oxygen, or the consumption of too many beers, or whatever, but I needed some rest anyhow. I always said that I would “sleep when I’m dead” but I never realized what Warren Zevon  really meant until now….

I awoke to a horrible noise and the feeling of weightlessness as I slammed into the side of the hauler’s aluminum  wall. My previously darkened world was now filled with sparks and debris as  I instinctively tried to grab a stationary object. A terrible screeching and grinding combined with a feeling of being upside down made for a rude awakening. The smell of smoke and burning rubber added to the confusion, as I desperately tried to figure out what was happening to my peaceful nap.  When the light show and sound effects ceased, I found myself wedged between the front tire and frame of my bagger flat ass out on the hauler’s floor still holding on to the strap I had grabbed only seconds before. I shook off the shock, and checked my limbs and package for damage. It appeared that I had survived the “A” ticket thrill ride with little or no major injury, so I scrambled to my feet and headed towards the side door. In mere seconds, I realized that there were major portions of the hauler’s skin missing, and I particularly noticed that my beer cooler was stuck in the wall near the rear of the trailer. I turned the latch on the side door and the whole thing fell off. I jumped outside and found myself on the slope of a ditch near the pavement. The hauler, although seriously wounded was upright on its four flat tires and reasonably intact considering the disaster it had just went through. As I watched Mark backing the truck down the breakdown lane towards me I began to imagine what had just happened.

My story: “You sorry fu(#er, you tried to kill me!”
His story: “Man, I fell asleep, and sideswiped a semi, and the friggin hauler came off.”

Later I learned that he really did hit another truck , and the hauler did come off and then flipped once or twice. But I didn’t care, because I survived and I still  had a long way to go, and a short time to get there. As the citizen travelers gawk at the mess on the side of the road,  I rolled the bagger down the deformed ramp of the hauler. I got the hell outta there just before the Highway Patrol arrived.

A few hundred feet up the highway I saw mile marker 13, and I immediately assumed that Mark had  effectively gotten me across the state line, a little worse for wear, and somewhat sore, and whatever else. His portion of the mission was done, and mine was just beginning. I bid him adieu, and wished him good luck. I had assumed that I was in Georgia, but it just didn’t feel like home anymore. Although I didn’t exactly know where I was,  I headed north just to make sure I was clear of Florida and the impending warrant waiting for me there. A few hundred miles later I took a left.

Back on the road again, I realized that my life was much better when I was moving fast and just riding my motorcycle for all it was worth. We both had escaped the potential doom of the flipping car hauler, and deserved a good romp in the sun. Riding gives me time to think about important stuff. This thought came to  mind:  If I was gonna make Tijuana Bike Fest, I needed to haul ass, and do as my attorney told me. His advice stuck in my mind. “As your attorney, I advise you to ride at maximum speed”.  I did exactly as he suggested. I needed to get the heck outta the states before the local warrant became national.

Most of my journey west  was uneventful,  with the exception of a loose ground wire at the battery which caused the bagger to sound like she was blowing up. Backfire, popping and general loss of power come along with this ailment, and is often known to scare the shit out of people driving next to you. I have experienced this problem before, and it was quickly corrected on the side of the road. I can fix most of the stuff that goes wrong with my bike, but I sometimes have problems figuring out where I’m going.

I was traversing the country living like some homeless dude, sleeping behind auto parts stores, bars, and diners, or wherever I could keep a low profile, and raise my ambient temperature. It was sometimes cold rainy, and miserable. One thing was sure however, it was better than being locked up in the county hoosgaw.  It was somewhere in southern New Mexico that I realized how lost I was. My original intent was to escape to Mexico through a border crossing near Brownsville Texas, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I forgot to take a left somewhere in the desert. It didn’t matter, as I was hundreds of miles north of where I was supposed to be. Traveling further west, I unfolded a map at a gas stop in Baja California to figure out where I was going. It was then that I realized I was already near my destination.  The camel jockey at the counter  was pissed that I didn’t fold the map back up correctly, but I reminded him that I was an American, and I had specific rights regarding particular paperwork handling. He didn’t understand, and I wasn’t surprised.

There were literally thousands of  bikers crossing the border at Baja, so my entrance to Mexico was routine. In minutes I was free from the oppression of the US government. My fake passport wasn’t even scrutinized. I was actually on schedule, for once in my life, and one day early for Tijuana Bike Fest. I decided to stop for a beer at some cantina called “Toro Grande”  This may have been my second mistake.

I arrived at the most opportune moment, to observe some sort of floor show involving a donkey, and a young lady which I assumed to be  some sort of petting zoo situation.  The locals on the other hand were for some reason pissed  about the action. A few seconds later there were people, bottles and bar stools  flying all around the place in a melee of destruction  and confusion. I heard cries of “ayeee” and “Federalies” and some other stuff like that. It was crazy. I don’t speak the language very well, but I  knew that something was up and it wasn‘t good. As the barnyard animals ran out the front door  I moved into a door with a sign that said “telefono”. A few moments later, I heard gunshots and  people yelling “pisteleros“ and aye aye aye  or something like that .  I’m not sure. It was noisy, and  I was kinda drunk so I won’t quote on what exactly happened.  All I know is that the next day, I went to Tijuana bike fest, and had a great time! And I want to say thanks to Taco Bell, which I recently learned is the Mexican Phone Company,  for letting me sleep in their phone booth on my first night in Mexico. They should close down those sorry ass restaurants they have here in the US however, and stick to the telephone business if they wanna succeed!  Until next month, adios, and mucho accelerando!

.

For some reason, I still haven’t recovered from the disasters that came to me during the Thanksgiving holiday. It seems that the more I drink to try to forget, the more I remember. Drinking however, is a good thing. Nothing is quite as omnipresent as the power of positive drinking!

The essence of life is, of course,  the ability to live without being incarcerated, incapacitated,  or persecuted by those individuals that would keep you down, and prevent your intrinsic right to be free. Freedom as we know it however, comes at a very high cost,
especially during the holidays.

I am truly a soldier of misfortune. I recently lost my job at the saw mill because the boss was porking the secretary, and his wife got pissed and took the business. Although I was being paid under the table, the attorneys and accountants for the company said the “incidental and contract labor” people had to go. I guess I was in that category.  I never liked attorneys, but when you really need one, they will still screw you over. You gotta have them though. I even rent one myself, but you would think that I by God own him most times, for as much as he costs.

Although I was making enough to pay the lot rent, and beer budget from this job, I knew the bar would be raised when the ol lady found out that I wasn’t really going to work when I left every morning. The loss of this menial task would also affect my ability to frequent the local gentlemen’s clubs and taverns that desperately need my business. My plight was further intensified when the government cancelled my monthly subsidy checks and food stamp card. It seems that some nosy governmental geek had observed me cruising the town in Uncle Bob’s Escalade and made a report to the central office. I hate rats! As time drew closer to the “Big Holiday”, things got even worse. Knowing that the ol lady was expecting something really extraordinary for Christmas, and remembering  that I wasn’t getting any money in at all was taking a toll on my last brain cell. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I knew I had to sell some shit fast!

A quick survey of the lot yielded several dismal prospects. Being a good southerner, I had been diligent enough to stock my yard with loads of junk. Junk being the key word here, my eyes quickly scanned past the pile of old engine blocks, the heap of twisted motorcycle frames, and the mountain of useless plumbing fixtures. The “best of the worst” items, and the ones I deemed most valuable were an old John Deere 180 tractor, and an antique hay bailing machine. Neither of these items were “currently operational” but with my well honed sales technique, I figured I’d be in the money in a matter of hours.

I summoned the ol lady, and the girls from the trailer, and we set about the task of retrieving my old equipment trailer from the pole barn, and rigging it to the Escalade. I lazily swigged a beer, as I watched the quartet of Daisy Duke wannabees push the aging farm equipment up the ramps and onto the flatbed. They squealed and cussed as one of the floorboards gave way under the weight of the tractor, but since the right front tire was now buried a foot deep into the metal frame, I wouldn’t have to waste the extra time binding down my load. When they jumped down, the ol lady asked me where I was taking all this junk. “Down to Grady’s Salvage and Farm Supply” I replied. An odd look came over her face. “You know Ol’ Grady don’t like you none-too-awful much.” “Maybe we should go with you, just to make sure tha….”  I stopped her in mid sentence, and said “Ya know, you might just be right about that”!

You see Grady was an ex-cop from up north, who inherited his family’s junk business here in Florida. He didn’t like the south, and the “ignorant inbreeds ” that inhabited it. He especially hated bikers, and had a special dislike for me and my circle of friends. But he did like the southern gals. A lot! I smiled as I thought to myself how lucky I was to still have Uncle Bob’s 3 semi-pro cuties on my team. Now all I had to do is give the 3 a quick refresher course on “Southern Drawl”, and the rest would be elementary.

I quickly devised a plan, and sent the ol lady to the trailer to get my framing hammer, the GI-Joe Walkie-Talkie set and the keys to the pickup truck. The plan went like this: Me and the girls would go in first, and the ol lady would take the pickup and wait at the hard road  near the entrance to Grady’s. If for some unknown reason there was a problem, I would call her on the walkie-talkie to bring the truck, and the needed implements already stashed in the rear window rifle rack. It was dusk when we left.

As I rolled down the dirt road that led to the junk yard, I saw Grady hunched over an old bush hog mower attachment. Stinking of Gin, sweating and cussing and as usual, Grady seemed to be in a bad mood. Realizing that Christmas would be ruined if I didn’t get some serious money, I would have to do my best to prop up the junk that I had delivered. All the stuff could of course be repaired, that is if you had a masters degree in engineering, and a  thousand or so dollars, but I didn’t care. I had an alternate plan. If I couldn’t raise a few grand from the junk I brought, I knew for sure he’d spring for some quality time with the three southern belles I had in  tow.

“Hey old man” I hollered, “Look at this cool stuff I brought ya”! He glanced at the precious antiques for a moment and scratched his crotch. “Man, you sure come up here with a load of shit, didn’t ya Craven” he slurred.” “I dunno if I got no money for this load of crap”.  I then retorted with “Man, you can have all this fine equipment for a reasonable cash donation of three K, or for the same figure, you can have what’s behind door number 2”. At that moment as if on cue, Amanda, Becky and Crystal hopped out of the rear door of the SUV. Grady’s jaw dropped as he viewed the display of fresh meat before him. “Gawddamit dude, you out done yerself this time” he blurted with a grin a mile wide. “Hell, I would rather have these here gals than that other junk you brought here”. As he drooled with delight, I reminded him that “it is what it is” and all sales are final. It was about this time when one of the girls said that they were all “down with that”, and it was  then that the deal went bad. Realizing that the girls weren’t authentic GRITS (girls raised in the south), ol Grady started jumping up and down and cussing about how I tried to bring him damaged goods. He spun, and grabbed a steel pipe which he began flailing towards me and the girls, and after a very near miss, I reached for the hammer I had secreted in my belt near the small of my back. Still cussing, Grady wound his pipe up for the home run and I smacked him in the gourd with the broad side of the hammer. He was on the ground kicking and spinning like a sprayed roach, still flailing the pipe and yelling obscenities when I gave him a size 13 tranquilizer with my right foot. As he took a nap, Crystal and Becky went through his pockets, and retrieved about 40 bucks and an old pouch of Red Man. I grabbed the GI Joe walkie-talkie from my vest and sent the “code red” signal. A moment later,  the ol lady slides the pickup to a halt in a cloud of dust, and jumps out with my Winchester. Seeing Grady snoozing, she tossed it back in the front seat of the truck and joined Amanda and myself on a spontaneous Christmas shopping spree. Becky and Crystal were already looting the farm supply store for things that they thought we could use as gifts. We all rejoiced as we quickly loaded the pickup with our spoils. This would truly be a great Christmas!

It was definitely time to haul ass, as the junk man was waking up, and when I floored the SUV to depart, the make-shift hitch broke, leaving the trailer and the priceless antique farm gear in Grady’s gravel parking lot. There was no time to worry about that however, and in my mind, I knew that Grady would enjoy having that fine equipment in exchange for all the stuff we had taken. We blasted down the highway, and arrived back at the trailer in record time. We hid the pickup and our loot in the pole barn to assure that the inevitable visit from our local constable would be uneventful.

Later, I enjoyed killing a six pack “just to watch it die”, as I wrapped some Christmas presents in brown paper grocery bags as I have done for so many years. Then it came to me. The vision of Christmas past, present and future, and all that other crap. I immediately tore off a piece of a grocery sack, and wrote down these words in respect for a poem I had heard somewhere in the past.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when I left the trailer, with an old shot-out tractor and a broken hay bailer.  Looking for funds I did roll in the night, little did I know it would end up in a fight.

As my quest carried on for the almighty dollar, get the F#(k out, I heard the junk buyer holler! So I smacked his fat head with a 20 ounce hammer, then he spit and he fell and began to stammer, “you redneck bikers just ain’t right!”  So I kicked him with my boot and put out his lights.

When I left the junk yard with the greatest of speed, I remembered to steal all the gifts that I need. A mixer, a toaster, a toilet, a bike, and all the cool things that the ol lady likes!

Some spark plugs some pipes, and a transmission case, and a big rear-view mirror, so she can do her face. Some firearms, some chairs, a cooler and grill, and a big roll of tubing for my moonshine still.

With all these cool presents loaded up in my truck, I blasted down the highway like I don’t give a f#(k..

Now that I’m home, and the loots out of sight, merry Christmas to y’all and have a good f#(kin night!

When the Sheriffs  arrived at the trailer with a warrant for my arrest, the girls all swore that I wasn’t at the junk yard at all. They also said that I hadn’t been home for weeks. As I hid in my neighbors shed, I heard them tell them that I was partying with my attorney in Costa Rica. I have included a picture in this story as evidence. All y’all help me out by  verifying this story should you be questioned during this on-going investigation. I appreciate your support! Merry Christmas to all, and I will see you at Tijuana Bike

It’s always a good reason to fight. Thanksgiving that is. I remember how I was raised, and taught that the real meaning of thanksgiving was to celebrate the Pilgrim’s moratorium on the elimination of Indians. In the old days, it was prophesized that the original celebration involved the sharing of food between long standing adversaries.  This tradition, in my life has never changed.

I awoke that morning with a pounding in my head. When I shook off the alcohol induced sleep, I remembered that the ol’ lady had intentionally struck me in the back of my skull with an iron skillet the night before. This painful memory was becoming more and more prominent as I walked down the narrow hall to visit the 5 gallon joint compound bucket that we call a toilet. But before I got to the door that used to house our fancy “indoor plumbing” bathroom (including a stand-up shower) I was again met with the rage of a woman. This time  the ol’ lady was unarmed, with the exception of an extremely loud voice. This voice however was as painful to my aching head as the 5 pounds of steel that had bid me sweet dreams the night before.  Evidently she was still pissed, but I couldn’t understand why.

After a seemingly unending barrage of verbal abuse, I learned that  I had once again not lived up to her expectations. She had invited no less than 10 of her family members to our trailer for the holiday to enjoy a Thanksgiving feast with us. At that time I reminded her that we didn’t even have 10 chairs or milk crates, much less a table to seat all of her expected dignitaries in the manner that they were accustomed to.  While she raced to the bedroom to retrieve the baseball bat, I stumbled down the steps out of the front door, and ran across the yard to my motorcycle. I should have attempted  my escape in the pick-up truck, but I knew that it was cold-natured, and the cool November weather would make it even harder to get started, and running.

I heard a loud crack as the bat came down on the back of the tour pack. But for her it was too late. I covered her with dirt and gravel, as I dumped the clutch at full throttle and hauled ass down the cow path that the owners of the park call a “road“. Once free of the  threat of bodily harm, I quickly remembered that I still needed to take a leak, so I pulled off the side of the road a mile or so later to relieve myself. It was at this time that I realized that most of this confrontation could possibly have been my own fault!

You see, the night before I remembered that she gave me her monthly government check. I had initially  intended to spend the entire $213.11 on groceries for the Thanksgiving dinner that  she had been planning for the last year. But you my dedicated readers, as well as I,  know the difference between fantasy and reality.  Instead of going to get the groceries, I did what I normally do, and went to visit all my friends at the local taverns and gentleman’s clubs. Around midnight, I remembered my original mission, and spent the remaining $42.00 on a gourmet take-out from some place called the “Jerk Hut”. (it was the only joint open at that late hour) I also remembered that she was somewhat dissatisfied  when I arrived back at the trailer with the several Styrofoam containers of burned chicken and mystery meat, with all the sides you would expect. Baked beans, Cole Slaw, and some un-identifiable liquid that resembled regurgitated sea snakes or something like that. Even though there was enough to feed everyone, she was not impressed. I did my best to explain to her that the burned looking chicken was really turkey, and the sea-snake sauce mixture was really gravy. I also explained to her that we could dig enough potatoes out of the yard to feed her flock. I later learned that “Jerk” food was some kind of really foul tasting Jamaican stuff, and the “potatoes” that were growing around the park were a variety of poison gourds that were only there to ward off the raccoons and possums. I actually would have enjoyed a dinner of raccoons and possums, but her family would not stand for it. I then went to the fruit stand on the main road and bargained for a sack of potatoes on credit.

Around noon, the hungry hoard began to arrive. I had returned only an hour earlier, greeted with the shouting of my name (expletives deleted for the sake of the kids). A near miss from a small hatchet reminded me that she was still pissed over my menu selection. The already blackened chicken and mystery meat was being warmed over our “redneck fireplace” in the front yard. The sack of potatoes were boiling in our turkey deep fryer bucket. A sharp stench of un-identified spices wafted through the air. At this time I‘m figuring “life is good” But the worst was yet to come.

Most of her family members were already enjoying the atmosphere around the trailer, when an unusual rumbling noise emanated from down the road. I was unfamiliar with this sound, and the dog began to growl. This particular motor sounded more refined, and newer than any of the other vehicles that frequent the park. A sweet low rumble eventually revealed a brand new candy apple hot pink Cadillac Escalade, with 26-inch chrome spinners and dual chrome plated exhaust pipes. The dog began to bark. As the mammoth SUV approached the yard, a few rug rats began to holler “Uncle Bob, Uncle Bob”! As the vehicle came to a stop near the old tractor, I observed an ominous shape behind the heavily tinted windows.  As the door opened, a fresh breath of air-conditioning mixed with a pine air freshener blasted across the yard like a cool autumn wind. Out of the drivers door rolled “Uncle Bob”. Weighing in at 350 plus,  Bob was casting a shadow on the dirt, while at the same time, his gigantic shimmering gold satin shirt reflected light on the very shadow he created.  Through the other four or five hatches blasted no less than 18 screaming cretins. The dog ran back under the trailer.

Geographically, most of the ol’ lady’s clan are from some frozen tundra located near upstate New York. Bob on the other hand was definitely from the city. Or possibly from Italy. It’s really hard to tell, but one thing is for sure, he was here for the same 2 reasons that the rest of her relatives were. 1. Warm weather 2. Free food. A short time later, I began to realize that there wasn’t enough food available to feed the entire group. As the ol lady handed out paper plates, and plastic forks and knives, I shuddered as the large plastic serving tray that was supposed to hold the turkey was given to uncle Bob. Within 2 minutes, the redneck fireplace’s grill was empty, as were all the plastic Country Crock containers that we used for side dishes.  Much to my surprise, no one seemed to complain about the Jerk chicken and mystery meat, (as if I gave a shit) and the kids seemed to be enjoying their dinner of candy that we had left over from Halloween. In usual Thanksgiving tradition, I had not partaken in the delicacies procured the night before, instead I was satisfied by attempting to drink the remainder of the beer left over from the last hurricane party.

Around five PM, most of our guests had returned to the Econo Lodge out on the highway.  Most that is with the exception of Uncle Bob, and 3 kids (read teenage girls) which I later learned were “his bottom bitches“ and not really his kids.  I was kicked back with my feet propped up on the spool we use as a dinner table, discussing Bob’s business ventures in non-prescription drugs. He was commenting on how much snow they had up north, when a noticeable amount of screaming and hollering erupted from the trailer at lot 102 across the road. I was used to this sort of disruption, as it was daily fare, but Bob seemed distracted. It was at this moment that disaster struck. As Bob turned around to speak, the gunshots rang out from 102. A stray slug from my neighbor’s 12 gauge had struck ol’ Bob in his bulbous buttocks. He groaned, teetered and crashed into the spool with an enormous thud, spilling my beer, and permanently destroying the eating surface I had enjoyed for years.  The paramedics assured us that Bob had no life threatening injuries, and amazingly, no one was injured in 102, with the  exception of  a really nice velvet Elvis portrait, that now appeared to have 3 eyes.  Around midnight, the three girls, the dog and I joined the ol lady for a well deserved nights rest.

The next morning we all went to the county hospital to visit Bob. He seemed to be in good sprits, and the huge translucent sack of morphine attached to his IV appeared to make the girls envious, or perhaps horny. I’m not sure which. Bob was face down on the bed devouring several dozen scrambled eggs and a loaf of toast when the doctor came in. He informed the ol lady that Bob would need a cellulite transplant to restore his bottom line, and since the only eligible donor was somewhere in Europe, it may be months before he could be released.

I asked Bob for the keys to the Escalade, and he reluctantly gave them to me. It was at this moment that I realized that Thanksgiving had other meanings. I mean other purposes than just getting together with your family, friends, and enemies for the sole purpose of  fighting and sharing food. I was truly thankful that  Bob’s fat ass had caught the stray slug that was headed right towards my gourd. I was also thankful for the loan of his 3 teenage girls, even though I later found out that they were actually twenty something.  But the one thing that I learned to be thankful for is my family. All of them. From Outlaws to In-laws, Brothers, Mothers, ol’ lady, adversaries, and friends. they all mean more to me now than ever before. After all, if it wasn’t for Bob’s fat butt I may have simply been more ashes in the burn pit.

Remember friends, death is certain, and life is not. This Thanksgiving try to enjoy yourself and your family as much as you can, and  remember to look for me out on the highway. I will be the one with the 4 hot girls  (the ol lady and Bob’s three spares) in the candy apple pink Escalade. Until next month, don’t be a Jerk, eat turkey.