Sunday, April 26, 2015

Nobody Knows the Nubble I've Seen, Nobody Knows My Horror

Sunday drivers are the bane of Val's existence. Okay. ANY drivers are the bane of Val's existence. They either tailgate her, or pull out in front and meander from one side of the road to the other at a top speed of 20 mph.

Today being Sunday, the drivers conspiring against Val were in Backroads with bells on.

Let's narrow it down to the prime offender, lest I frighten away my loyal readers with a tale as long as War, What is it Good For? War and Peace.

The Pony and I were returning from our weekly grocery-shopping trip, laden with tasty treats to be warmed in the microwave or heated in the oven. A red sedan appeared in front of us on the county road, not far past the prison. It's a long and winding road. At the point we came upon Red, the thoroughfare had unkinked, and our turn-off was in sight. No problem. We would soon be shed of this slowster. "You know, Pony, I get really irritated by drivers like this. But I'm not going to say anything. That's because I have such great self-control." The sound from the back seat might have been The Pony clearing his throat, what with the sudden cold he came down with Friday afternoon, or it might have been his eyes rolling in their sockets. You'd think his glasses would act as more of a sound buffer.

We crossed over the bridge when we came to it. I had my left-turn signal on to access our blacktop road. And then it happened. Red turned onto our blacktop road! Unfair! Not only did he neglect to use a signal, but he hit the brakes as soon as he got on that road. Which hung Val out to dry, her making her own signaled turn across the oncoming lane of traffic, with nowhere to go because Red was dragging his tires and barely moving. WHOOSH! Oncoming traffic barely missed T-Hoe's back-end.

Red sped up then. To his 20 mph. Right down the middle. An oncoming maroon 4WD truck almost sideswiped him. That made Red no nevermind. He still took his half out of the middle. Not in a straight line, of course. He swove from one shoulder to the other.

"I don't think this guy has any idea where he's going, Pony. I've never seen this car out here." Of course The Pony did not reply, caring not one whit for the emotions of others.

Red kept going our way. I lost him at the low-water bridge. It was like he hit the nitrous button in the driving game The Pony plays at Walmart while I check out. I coasted at full speed down the approach to the bridge, as I am wont to do, and popped up the ramp on the other side like Evel Knievel launching from the south rim of the Snake River Canyon on September 8, 1974.

We continued our merry way along the blacktop, past the compound of the guy we bought our long-ago rental property from, past the tree where Hick's friend Buddy's son crashed his truck, past the curve where we rescued a lady in a little purple car during a snowstorm and drove her home to the house where the headless body was later found in the cistern, up the hill where a little red sports car ran me off into the ditch (all hail 4WD!) during a different snowstorm, past the house where my sweet, sweet Juno got lost in the woods when she followed Hick on his Gator, and turned onto our gravel road across from the mailbox row.

About a fourth of a mile in, we found Red. He had parked his red sedan on the gravel road, and was standing at its back bumper taking a whiz. Yes. That's right. Even though there's a thin stand of trees between the road and the creek, Red chose not to step into them, but to stand with both feet solidly on the gravel, his pants undone, irrigating the underbrush.


"Well, now we know where that guy was going. And where his IS going. He must have come from the drive-thru liquor store."

I did not slow down. I had frozen food, you know. Red turned to look at us. I've seen more Zen-like composure on a deer in the headlights. His mouth made the silent sound of, "OH SCHICK!" At least that's what it looked like he was saying. He must have not wanted anyone to see that he had forgotten to shave. He fumbled with his special purpose, Mr. Peabody, and ran around to the driver's door. By that time, I had already blown past him at about 15 mph.


When we came upon his car on the county road, he was right outside of town. Scarcely a mile from Dairy Queen and Hardees and Subway, all of which have public restrooms and don't even question people about buying something. But no. Let's just drive out to the country, where we don't know where we're going, and find somebody's private land to relieve ourselves on. Even though there's a sign that says NO TRESPASSING. Sioux has seen it! But she hasn't seen the nub I've seen. More like a nubble. That guy really needs to keep that thing hidden.

What has been seen cannot be unseen.

You know how Michigan has that cool ad campaign that makes you want to drop what you're doing and visit Pure Michigan? Backroads has its own: Come to Backroads: One Great Big Toilet.


  1. Whizzed right by that wizzer, did you? Wonder how drunk he was?

  2. According to Mrs. C, everyone on the road that is not her is an A-hole!

    We were planning a trip to the Caribbean this spring, but when I saw that Michigan ad I am trying to get Mrs. C to change our plans.

  3. It must be irritating having someone be so disrespectful of where you live. Some people are just animals.

  4. Hey, at least it wasn't a parking garage he was whizzing in. That could have gotten him into lots of trouble...

  5. Maybe you and T-Hoe should come to the Snake River and pop a wheelie over the canyon. I'm positive you could out-do Knievel's lame try. Then we could meet for gas station chicken and I could show you how the Idaho guys irrigate foliage. They cover circles so big you can see them from Google Earth.

  6. Linda,
    Hard to tell the level of drunkenness. It was only 11:30 a.m., so I think he was just getting started. He must be one of those people we see at the drive-thru liquor store at 7:00 a.m. on the weekdays.

    I am sure Mrs. C means everyone except her and VAL!

    I know how Pure Michigan tempted you. Unfortunately, I first read your last sentence as, "...I am trying to get Mrs. C to change her pants." Yeah, buddy. You would be the best seller at the JERK store if THAT came out of your fingers.

    They'd better not try to cross the road like a possum!

    Oh, dear. That poor man was only trying to stay healthy by not holding it in! Shame on me. I should have known he was banned from the health club shower for being The Urinator.

    That's a tempting offer, but alas, I don't have four parachutes and a rocket launcher. Google Earth? Even gas station chicken could not calm my nerves if I saw a dude who could irrigate to that extent!

    1. You know, he could have had uromysitisis poisoning!

    2. Ya got me! I would have needed to consult my BFF Google for that one!