Thursday, June 26

Welcome to Thunderdome, Bitch!

Traveling 100 miles anywhere in a car, and you're bound to hit something. That's why I always buckle up. The other day I was navigating Dianne's rockin' Jetta, I cremated a butterfly at 85 mph somewhere near Narcoosee. We didn't stop to see if it was OK...most of it was still on the windshield.

The entire traumatic incident got me thinking about animals. And cars. And hitting said animals with cars. Here is a breakdown of wildlife I've slain during my career as an apocalyptic road warrior/orchid enthusiast:

Prey: A family of ducks
Vehicle: Chevy Astro van

Speeding back from Belle Glade, Coop was asleep in the passenger seat as I navigated the rim of Lake Okeechobee at dusk. I was 15 and was looking forward to being able to drive alone. Until then, I was sentenced to shuttle duty driving several unfamiliar vehicles.
The van was unremarkable except for being smelly and had a really sensitive throttle. I was speeding along at about 60 mph and saw a wierd shape ahead. I thought it was a trash bag or some shit. It quickly materialized into a duck and her ducklings, waddling across the road. Instantly, every action movie with a cheap car chase flashed through my mind: I envisioned myself swerving violently and flipping the van, ejecting myself and Coop from the wreckage and impaling ourselves on cyprus tree stumps.
This did not set well with me. I elected to swerve carefully instead, but it was too late: I STEAMROLLED MOMMA DUCK AND AT LEAST HALF OF HER YOUNG. This woke up Coop: "What the fuck?!" he grumbled. As I glanced in the rearview, I saw a couple of ducklings scrambling over their former family's smashed carcasses to escape the carnage.
We had Mountain Dew and KFC that night to celebrate.

Prey: Buzzard
Vehicle: 1990 Chevy C1500 Pickup

Just north of town, across from a church (God hates me) this silly-ass carrion bird was feasting on the rotting entrails of some creature just as dumb as he was. It's last meal was right on the edge of the road. As I approached, I remembered that buzzards are like cows: they don't go in reverse. I also recalled that buzzards eat dead shit, and that would ruin my day if it hit me...BLAMM-O!!!
This vile avian crashed into my grill and skewed my headlight. While sparing the light itself, it created a shockwave of stinky hell that knocked the electrical rig loose on my radio. I lost power, right in the middle of a really rippin' Creedence guitar solo. After I repaired the damage, I shook my fist at the very crumpled, very dead bird and laughed maniacally. I must admit that after the ducks, I felt sorrow and anguish because they were both cute and delicious. But this fuck-stain was uh, as they say "cruisin' for a bruisin." The buzzard damaged my ride. For that, he MUST BE ENDED.

Prey: Toad
Vehicle: 1986 Ford Bronco

This fucker was badass. It's the vehicle of choice for murderers, after all! Featuring a removable canvas top and BIG ASS CHROME BUMPERS. Late at night near the lake, it gets pretty moist. No, I'm not talking about my armpits this time. Killing toads is really about simple ecology: reptiles are cold-blooded and have to stay warm. At night, the roads are steamy and offer said warmth. "Mr. Toad, Id like to introduce you to Mr. Bumper. He's a pretty big guy as you can see. Goodbye."
It doesn't take a freshman physics teacher's aid to explain it: At 70 mph, a 3 ounce amphibian can be COMPLETELY OBLITERATED by a 2-ton truck. Even over George Strait's greatest hits, an audible BOOONNNGGG! could be heard, clearly resonating his destruction into the swampy night. It sounded like Roger Clemens throwing a handfull of mashed potatoes onto Alex Van Halen's big ass gong. Later, I surveyed the destruction: all that remained was a small black stain. Victory!
Share your tales of irresponsible driving here. Or don't. I could give a rat's ass.

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