Tuesday, August 22, 2006



In my veiled travels as a raving, rootless godbabbler, the last thing I thought I'd encounter was a flying bottle of trucker piss to the face. It's one thing to negotiate the turnpikes soaked in your own urine, but somebody elses? My mistake for straying too close to the nation's crumbling highway system.

At first I thought Hintercloos, the thumbless Dutchman, had finally found me. But no, it takes more than eight fingers to downshift an 18-wheeler while filling, priming and dispatching with precision a 3/4 bottle of manpee.

This was no critic of my adhoc cover manifesto of self-flagellation and daytime television, although the bastard could have tightened the cap pre-jettison (and eased up on the asparagus some).

This was something more sinister, a little known but growing threat along the peaceful, condom-strewn sides of the country's endless grey ribbon. Even clad in my urine-soaked monk apparel, of which the rental deposit is now history, my investigative instincts were without fail. No surprises in this new low in the war on fluids. As usual, the root cause of this noxious roadside residue can be laid at the rubberized steps of big box retail.

The demand for WalMartian resupply is so severe that truckers hauling flats of pressboard shelving and tubesock party packs don't see the profit in rest stops. Better to drain the pickle in transit using whatever receptical at hand. Apparently sports drink containers have that "magnum sized" opening favoured by the nation's chubwormed independent op's. Any CW McCall fan caught loading up with regular sized springwater before the long haul risks the handle "peewee".

Once relieved, an offering to the gods of the soft shoulder is in order. This is best done over long straightaways, at maximum velocity, preferably with hapless thumbers or hoofers by the wayside. As usual, bonus points for nailing cyclists.

Like the big cats of the Serengeti Plain, territory is marked and how. Pretenders to the throne challenge with a scattering of 12 to 16 ouncers, whereas the true alpha-jimmy will impress with a gallon jug or more of methanphetamine-tainted bladder amber. An accompanying odor of old leather saddle announces with authority.

So enjoy your back to school bargains, soccer mom. Next time you grab for that last Crayola knockoff on the shelf, you might want to think about the pee price paid for restocking. As for me, it's time to head home and prepare for the final showdown with the thumbless Dutchman. But first I'll qualify for airbrakes and load up on Ocean Spray. America, urine for it.

No comments: