Seriously dude? That’s all you got?
It would be very evil of me to make fun of this happy young lady, so I will take the high road and say something nice.
Those tires sure look sturdy.
I remember a comic “In The Bleachers” when I was young that had a comic with that title but the image showed “Hell” for the first screen and “Right Field” for the second. Both make sense, but this one is a third and reminded me of that… all are true.
Nobody Likes a Liar
Thought up: 5.7.02 – 1:32pm
Written: 5.17.02 – 11:28pm
Today highway 287 took me from Helena, Montana to Choteau, Montana in a little over 3½ hours. This may not seem too strange if your residence is outside of Montana, or for that matter, if you don’t know your way around Montana. For those in Montana that do know the roads, a trip from Helena to Choteau is less than a hundred miles. That means at very most the trip should take a little over an hour and ½ if you’re going 60. And it’s not a bad road, there was no construction, no deer hopping about, nothing out of the ordinary on the road except for 3 inches of slush and drifting snow. Granted, it is Montana, and some may say that it happens, some might even say they expect it, but it’s still ludicrous in my opinion.
Anywho, I was cruising along the highway at a steady 55, because it was snowing and a little wet on the road, so I was cautious through the canyon, and came out at the halfway mark, Wolf Point, in a little under forty-five minutes. At Wolf Point is the turn to head to Choteau, and where the snow and slush crept ever closer to my car. Not 2 miles into the drive, the snow and slush were blanketing the road making it impossible to drive even 35, let alone the limit of 60.
Now, I know how to drive on snowy/icy/crappy Montana roads fairly well, I’ve lived in Montana for almost 20 years, and I’ve learned that one can easily slip off the road going faster than the road allows. So there I was, motoring along at 30 mph, knowing how bad these roads were and this guy comes flying up from behind me going easily 40-50 and had Oregon plates, wouldn’t you know it. I see him in my rear view start to “attempt” to slow down for me, but instead starts to skid and swerve, and almost hit me, but regain control of the vehicle before it rolled over into me. This made me a little nervous so I slowed down to like 5 mph to let this jerk pass me, which he did gladly, and as I attempted to speed back up to my hyper-speed of 30 mph, my tires decided to hit a patch of slush and start hydroplaning.
This isn’t very much fun on the highway, I spun around in a circle and ended up in the other lane. I quickly backed up, adrenaline pumping, and got back into my own lane, and continued on my merry way. “Damn May winter weather in Montana,” I thought. My thoughts continued, what would have happened if there was an 18-wheeler in the other lane, hurling toward me? I would have taken quite a lickin’ I’d say from him, and he would have thought that it was because of my poor driving that ruined his semi, when in actuality, it was that damn foreigner from Oregon that made me slow down in the first place.
My contemplation continued a step further. What if I were lying in the ditch with a steering wheel stuck in my chest, and the truck driver got knocked out as well, and we were the only ones for miles in either direction? He’d probably be ok because those semi-trucks are pretty tough, but me, I’d be in some trouble. I’d have to lie there until help arrived. At the mercy of a steering wheel that wouldn’t let go its grasp of my ribcage.
What would flash through my mind I pondered. Would I think of the times I’d spent in college in Walla Walla? Would I think of my family and friends? Or the white-sand beaches I touched in the South Pacific? People say that so many things rush through your head in the time before death, but what would rush through MY head? I mean AFTER the windshield… I think that I would probably be thinking,
“Gee, I wish that stupid guy from Oregon would learn how to drive, and then I’d probably realize that there was a steering wheel in my chest, and I was wearing a windshield collar. “Gee, I wish this steering wheel would get out of my guts.”
And then I’d struggle to get out of the car, but by the time I decided to struggle, I’d remember that I have to have my entire life flash in front of me if I’m going to “move on.” So I’d sit and wonder what might have been with so many things, and what is going to be. But by that time, somebody would hopefully have found me and gotten me out with the Jaws of Life, or a crowbar or something.
The next day in the paper it would have read, Dumb Helena man in gruesome car wreck because he’s a bad driver! The subhead would read, Mock, ridicule, and tease him if you get a chance to! He is a terrible man! And I would have been the bad driving guy for the rest of eternity, the laughing stock of the country, and I’d have been labeled as the worst driver in America, unbeknownst to that Oregonian who probably wouldn’t even have know there was an accident behind him.
I’d probably tell people that there was this crazy man that passed me from Oregon, and they’d just look at me and nod their heads, and really think deep down that I’m just making it up to sound good, and make Oregonians seem evil. But really, I guess there could be worse fates. (See next chapter.) So perhaps if I were in that situation, I think I’d just blame it on someone that everyone hates alike, and say,
Me: “Yea, it was terrible, I was drugged by terrorists in Wolf Point,” and the cops would say,
Cop: “Mister, Wolf Point? Are you kidding us? Nobody lives in Wolf Point except for cattle and some real nice folks; terrorists don’t even know where Wolf Point is. We did a study on it last month.” I’d have to think quickly and probably say something like,
Me: “Who asked you cops anyway, you’re probably terrorists too, I have rights you know!” And they’d say,
Cop: ”Listen buddy, you’re the one telling us. We didn’t ask you anything.” I’d say,
Me: “Oh, yea, you’ve got a good point, anyway then, back to my story, I mean truth… … so they stuck me back in my car, and my feet were tied with barbed-wire, and I was blinded, and there was a brick on the gas, and I had to steer with my teeth, and it was really hard to see when I was going 80 in the slush, I didn’t know what road to drive on of the three I saw from the drugs, and then I that semi-truck jumped out of nowhere!”
Cop: “Man, that’s some real tough luck kid. What about your hands son? Where were they during all of this?”
Me: “Um, they must have cut off my arms completely officer! Yea, they did! It was horrible!”
Cop: “Son, your arms are right there, attached to your shoulders where they’ve always been.”
Me: “Oh! Praise God! They’re back! They must have fallen back on to my shoulder joints when I hit the semi! My mistake sirs…” “The nod” would surely follow.
I’d conclude to myself that at least this way they wouldn’t accuse me of being a liar that hates Oregonians, because some people might like Oregonians, and I’m fairly sure, most people don’t care for terrorists, but boy, I’ll tell you, nobody likes liars…
I actually preferred the “you and your johnson” ditty.
That hippy giving free hugs gets pretty POed. Making hippies mad is funny.