Wednesday, May 25, 2005


Laying eyes on Trashman for the first time is almost as unsanitary as letting your dog lick you in the mouth after he just got finished with a good, sloppy ball washing. Jack seemed oblivious to the behemoth wearing psychedelic purple cowhide slowly approaching the truck. Apparently the mites in his sideburns were acting up again and he was in hot pursuit of one making a mad dash for the chin.

I knew the right thing to do was to get out of the truck and shake Trash’s hand. But to be quite honest, I was afraid the motherfucker would eat me. He walked like the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters and with each step I could see ripples of vibration in Jack’s green tea. What in the hell have I gotten myself into?

Jack jumped out first and ran up to Trash, then he did this fucked up Elvis Presley karate maneuver before throwing his arms around Trash for a heartfelt embrace. It was scary, I tell ya. He even made the sound effects while he was doing it, “Hwaaaahhhhhh, hiYA!”

Now here were a couple of men who needed my help. Bad. This would be my most challenging mentorship yet. Abbot & Costello were depending on me to teach them my trademark, studly moves.

Ten minutes later I was the meat in a freakish GI Joe/Psychedelic Cow sandwich packed into the crack hoopty. Jack cranked up Shania Twain and the two of them sang it loud, sang it proud to Man, I Feel Like a Woman. Trash has a tick that causes him to flinch and wink. Says some dude named Hector put angel dust in his weed and shit ain't been right since.

We got to the tent revival and found us a seat close to god and all his wondrous creations. We ordered us a round of beers, well, two of us did. One of us had a Cosmopolitan and inquired about a fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.

The first set of tiddies came out and when she worked her way around to our side Jack doubled over with his hands on his crotch, shuddered, and excused himself from the table.

“You nasty bitch, get the fuck out of here!”

Trash shook his head. “He does that every time.”

“No shit? What else do I not know about Texas Jack?”

Trash was puffing on a doobie. I had to wait for him to exhale to answer. “The man thinks he’s a lethal weapon. Steven Segal and shit. He filled out the registration card to carry a concealed weapon and wrote down himself as the weapon. Oh yeah, don’t laugh. I’ve been putting up with that shit for over 20 years, my man. Watch him when he comes back. He’ll be scoping the place like he’s some bad ass ready to kill. Won’t matter none to him that he creamed his pants ten minutes ago.”

“Don’t fucking remind me.”

“See that big tiddied ho’ over there about to go on?”

“The redhead?”

“Yep. He nailed that shit about a year ago.”

“Get the fuck out! What’s her name?”

“Mike. Shut up, here comes Jack.”