This trip report is true, 100% sort of almost. Some details might have been changed to protect us from getting sued or to make me look awesome.
After telling cousin Nadine goodbye and her giving us a sack full of sausage and biscuits for the road, me, Lute Fenwick and my nephew Eugene Titweller loaded back up into the Pacer and hit the road again.
Things were going pretty good as we rolled out of Eufaula. Until we ran into the motorcycle gang around Tifton, Georgia.
We had pulled into Herschel’s Gas ‘n Git to top off the gas tank and dump out the plastic milk jug. Eugene was heading into the store to get some Slim Jim’s and soda when he accidentally bumped into the meanest, hairiest, nastiest, gap-toothed, smelly biker you ever did see. The biker grabbed a double fist of Eugene’s shirt and lifted him up to eye level and said, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, you little elbow”.
Now, the biker did not actually say “elbow”, but since this is a family type place I felt the need to substitute a fairly non-offensive body part.
Eugene managed to squeak out, “I’m very very sorry sir!” He also managed not to pee his pants, which I thought was pretty good on Eugene’s part.
The biker shook Eugene harder and yelled in his face, ” WHO ARE YOU CALLING SIR! I AM A LADY!”.
Uh oh. We had run into a member of the roughest, meanest, all female biker gang out there: The Unshorn Sisters of The Apocalypse.
She looked kinda like this, but with highlights and nail polish.
These gals were bad news. My buddy Bobby Martinez ran into a bunch of them one time in a pool hall around Tulsa. He up and called one of them “darlin” as he opened the door for a group of The Sisters. Bad mistake. Afterwards, it took doctors a good hour to remove the pool cue from poor ol’ Bobby’s….um…elbow. Bobby still rocks back and forth and cries sometimes.
There was about to be violence. I had to do something.
I did the only thing I could do. I walked right over, looked her square in the eye and said, “I don’t have any idea who this guy is, Ms. Sister. Never seen him before in my life. I’ll leave you to your business. Good day to you.”
No use in all of us getting a butt whoopin’.
Just then, Lute came around the corner, saw what was going on and said, “Darleen?”
The big, hairy biker, turned around and said, “Lute?? Oh lord, it’s you! Luteeee!! C’mere baby!” She dropped poor Eugene, and grabbed up ol’ Lute in a bear hug and started kissing on him.
Apparently, Lute was her old man for a while when she was with the chapter in Little Rock, until she left him for a Chippendales dancer. All was forgiven after that. The Sister’s bought our gas, fed us lunch, and even gave us an escort down I-75 almost to Lake City, Florida. They had leave us there and hit I-10 to head over to Pensacola for a biker rally.
Lute’s legendary lack of discretion, complete absence of standards and apparently non-existent olfactory senses in his dating life had saved our backsides.
We keep a going down the Interstate until we hit the turnpike. Now the turnpike is a toll road. I have a moral objection to toll roads. I pay taxes. Ok, I pay taxes on gas and beer. Elwood don’t pay to use a toll road. I just slap a little little bit of mud on the license plate and blast right through the SunPass tolls.
We made it through without getting pulled over, but here is a bit of advice if you get pulled over by the cops:
- Remind them that YOU pay their salary. They will appreciate that you know that and that you are reminding them.
- I was a Jr. Reserve Deputy back in high school for the county Sheriff. I don’t mind playing that card. I also use it to pick up women. Chicks dig cops.
- If you just relax, body cavity searches aren’t that bad.
Next time, I’ll talk about how Walt Disney World tries to hornswaggle you into paying big-elbowed ticket prices and what we did to get tickets. It did not involve me doing exotic dances you bunch of weirdos.