Um, wait…what happened?


The weekend is kind of a blur, most weekends when “Trucker Joe” comes to visit are. Trucker Joe is…you guessed it…a Truck Driver with the first name of Joe.  I’m not sure what his middle name is…it’s probably Michael or something…but it should be Debauchery.  I think his blood type is Busch Light…it’s the only liquid I’ve ever seen him consume.  No water, no juice…just Busch, straight out of the can.  I have no idea how old Trucker Joe is, he may be in his mid-forties…but he’s extremely amusing, usually unintentionally.  He’s the kind of guy you can’t help but like, well, if you met Joe and didn’t like him…that would make you a giant retard.  I woke up to the sound of him cracking open a can of beer Saturday morning. Surely, my admission that I can be woken from a deep sleep by the sweet symphony of an adult beverage being released from its aluminum home, says more about me than the man consuming it…I never said I was a classy broad.  I am of the opinion that the only thing more comforting than the sound of a beer being opened…is looking at the instrument panel of my car and discovering that I have a full tank of gas.

I only have a half a tank of gas… so beer trumps petroleum, right now.  At some point during Saturday morning I joined Joe in his before breakfast beverages, I can’t let a friend drink alone.  There were several empty boxes next to the garbage, emblazoned with the words 18 pack, so I was not the only person helping Joe keep the Busch Beer people in business.  Joe spends a lot of time on the road, between here and Troy,  New York…which is where awesome people are created in bulk.  Troy is the birth place of Uncle Sam, the shirt collar and some of the craziest bastards I’ve ever met in my life.  I’ve come across some demented people in my day, so that’s quite the compliment.  If you’re ever up that way I recommend you check out their public library, it’s got glass floors…how effing cool is that?

Troy is a recurring topic of conversation in my life.  My boyfriend and 90% of the people he socializes with are from there.  Some of them have decided to make Fort Lauderdale their home, which means Fort Lauderdale has more insane people per capita.  This is alright by me, it’s a good kind of crazy.  As far as I can tell there’s a tremendous amount of pride that comes with being from Troy. The city and its inhabitants have a reputation of being kinda rough around the edges. I spent a little time there last spring, I didn’t see any of that.  What I saw was a place that blossomed during the Industrial Revolution, had a bit of an economic downturn and is now bracing for a comeback.  The architecture is beautiful and the people are genuine.  They say what’s on their minds, I appreciate that quality.  I have a t-shirt from there.  On the back, the sentence “Troy…what!” is written.  I’m wearing it right now as a matter of fact.  It was something I heard a lot when I was up there, I found it to be funny.  It’s a phrase that, when said without the appropriate posturing, means nothing.  But when you say it standing, in the aggressive, universal, “Hey asshole, what are you gonna do about it?” position, takes on a whole new meaning.  You all know the gesture that I’m talking about.  If I walked up to a group of my friends, pounded on my chest, declaring “Fort Lauderdale…what!” they’d probably disown me.  If you do that to a group of people from Troy, they might laugh and hug you. These guys are different, there’s a sense of community, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

When Joe visits my boyfriend, he parks his ginormous truck in the parking lot next to the condominium complex.  Often times, we’ll go out and lose track of him throughout the evening.  He always wanders back to his truck and sleeps off the insanity.  This weekend was no different. We lost him before the sun went down, I’m not sure where he went, but my boyfriend went to check on him sometime in the wee hours of Sunday morning while I was sleeping.   After he located him and made sure he still had a pulse, he and that merry band of Troy-born pranksters that are always around, decided it would be a good idea to give Joe’s truck a bathroom.  They “borrowed” a port-o-potty from a Super Bowl celebration that was being set up in a parking lot nearby and lifted it on to the bed of Joe’s rig.

I saw video of this. Joe was not exactly pleased and requested that they remove it immediately.  They did and returned it to its original location. Joe also said he was going to stop drinking…he didn’t. This all occurred while Joe was wearing my underwear.  I’m not exactly sure how this fits in.  If my memory serves me correct the series of events went a little something like this:  after Joe and I enjoyed our beers on Saturday… he concluded that the only thing that could improve his morning was wearing my undies.  Most people would find this odd, I can’t say that it surprised me.  I’d just watched him sing Snoop Dog’s “Gin and Juice,” and do his own little choreographed dance when he got to the “laid back, with my mind on my money and my money on my mind” part.  He looked more like an auxiliary member of the Village People than he did a gangster rapper when he leaned back in his chair and raised his arms to make a c-like shape.  There was no music and no one else was singing.  Joe is white, bald, lanky, has several deer tattoos, and is rarely seen wearing a t-shirt that doesn’t have a fish on it.  He’s not exactly who you’d expect to hear singing about Compton.  He’s also not the kind of guy you expect to see sporting Victoria and all of her secrets.

Under the guidance of cheap beer, I felt it was my civic duty to make his dreams a reality.  I handed him a fresh pair of purple panties with little green stars on them.  He excused himself and put them on, I could hear him laughing through the bedroom door.  When he exited the room,  the waist of his cargo shorts revealed the tiny velvet bow that adorned the front.   Wait, it gets better…shortly thereafter we decide that we’re going to go out and get some food.  I probably would have forgotten that Joe was wearing my unmentionables…except he insisted on telling everyone we came in contact with that he was “wearing my drawers”.

I got more sideways glances than he did.  Several people asked me why I was letting a grown man wear my underwear…I answered with the obvious “why not?”  It’s not like I was going to ask for them back, so…technically, he was wearing his underwear.  Fast forward a several hours, after the foolishness,  I awake to find  my boyfriend, his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend sitting in a circle, cleaning greasy footprints off of my boyfriend’s very white carpet.  I knew there was an interesting story behind it, but I didn’t ask.  I’d eventually hear all about it so…I went back to bed.  Evidently, the Karma Fairy repaid them for their port-o-potty stunt and the roommate stepped in a grease puddle while standing on the back of Joe’s truck.  After they stood around giggling and recording their mischief, they came home and he unknowingly tracked the grease all through the condo.  No worries, they got it all cleaned up.  Until the next day, when his roommate put on the very same greasy sneakers and then paced around during an intense phone conversation.  It looked like a live version of the Family Circus comics, when the kids run all over the house and the artist tracks their movement with the black dotted lines. Since I don’t live there and it isn’t my carpet, I found this to be epically hilarious.

Later that morning, while buying supplies for the Super Bowl celebration, someone rented a carpet cleaner.  They took turns shampooing the rug while Joe and I sat poolside, drinking beer and watching the game.  Aside from me looking at him and laughing, we didn’t verbally reference  the underwear incident…that was yesterday’s lunacy.  After Joe left, my boyfriend asked if the weekend was going to be a blog entry.   I considered not writing about it, because I wasn’t sure if I wanted the world to know that I willingly associate with a group men still acting like frat boys.  I decided I would take the Troy approach…yeah this happened, what are you gonna do about it?

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Mostly sunny, with a chance of psychosis…


Under the warm glow of florescent lighting and a sign that says “Where shopping is a pleasure,” I waited patiently for the woman in front of me to locate her coupon for Snuggle fabric softener and count out the change to pay for her groceries.  I was attempting not to make eye contact with the middle-aged cashier, who was trying in earnest to rope me into a conversation about the great new tropical scent Snuggle had introduced and the fact that Salmon had just gone on sale.  All I wanted to do was pay for my god-damned beer and peruse to headlines of the latest “Celebrities without make-up” headlines of the smutty magazines in the check-out lane.  “Geezus, this is taking forever. Do you really need to save 20 cents that badly, you buck-toothed sea hag!?” I thought, momentarily concerned that I had uttered this phrase out loud.  I was just about to interject something about Teriyaki sauce into the mindless fish conversation, just to keep my inner dialogue from escaping my mouth when I was distracted by a familiar face that had made its way into my peripheral vision. 

The face belonged to a man I had seen frequently, but I couldn’t quite place where I knew him from.  The body attached to the face was gesticulating wildly. I’m no behavioral specialist, but I am observant enough to know that his hand signals, red face and bulging veins in the neck region are indicative of extreme anger. “THAT (expletive rhyming with duck)iING MOVIE RENTAL BOX JUST TOOK MY MONEY AGAIN AND DIDN’T GIVE ME THE BARBIE PRINCESS MOVIE” he shouted at the pimply, bewildered, customer service desk worker. “Oh boy, I should have gotten a bag of Cheetos.  I would have had dinner and a show.  This guy has officially gone bat-shit crazy” I mused. 

I know that in polite society, we are not supposed to stare at people who may have a mental illness.  I am not a member of polite society. I am of the opinion that the mentally unstable are highly entertaining and welcome any display of irrational behavior with open arms. I was totally engrossed in his meltdown when a flash of today’s weather forecast started playing in my head.  The tall, dentally superior, perfectly groomed, profanity spewing, whack-job was none other than the Meteorologist on my local 6 o’clock news.  The last time I had seen him he was smiling like the Cheshire cat, while informing me that Mother Nature was going to royally screw with my weekend.  I could not believe that the man who cared enough about me to suggest I “bring an umbrella, because it’s gonna be a soggy one,” was having a conniption of nuclear proportions over not being able to get his Barbie Princess fix. 

I almost gave up my spot in line to go over and ask for his autograph. I said almost. Beer is an essential food group in my home; my impending purchase was far more important than embarrassing the guy who makes a living standing in front of the computer generated peninsula I call home- telling me the information that I could easily figure out on my own if I went outside.  I live in Florida, it is always either hot, raining or both.  I don’t need anyone to point that out to me while telling cheesy jokes.  This guy has the easiest job on the planet. I wondered what kind of stress he was under that could possibly cause this kind of break with reality.

The fetus behind the counter tried to calm the situation, her efforts only succeeded in infuriating the weather guy further.  He started screaming again, but had worked himself into such a fit of anger that I could only make out a few F-Bombs. The rest of his tirade sounded like Animal from the Muppets after receiving a massive head injury that affected the part of the brain responsible for speech.  I pulled out my cell phone, with the intent of recording him and posting him on YouTube. The cashier, who was obviously a far more civic minded person than myself whispered “We’ve already called the Police, honey. You don’t have to do it again”.  “Oh…right. Ok. I was worried this was going to get out of hand.” I said, lying, as I searched the menu on my phone for the camcorder widget. I can never find that damn thing when I need it. 

He suddenly stopped and looked right at me. Perhaps he realized what a spectacle he was making of himself or maybe he heard my roaring laughter, which had started sometime after he yelled “I’M NOT GOING TO CALL THE 800 NUMBER ON THE MACHINE, YOU STUPID TWAT SUCKER. I WANT MY (expletive rhyming with duck, again)ING MOVIE!”.    I have to admit, this guy has a way with words.  

After a pregnant pause, he collected his bags full of Healthy Choice frozen entrees and Vitamin Water and stormed out of the automatic sliding door.  I eventually was able to pay for my beer and exit the store, I don’t think any of the front end help recognized the identity of the lunatic that had escaped without a conversation with the boys in blue, but the 7 day forecast has never looked the same way to me since then.