Doris' Really Bad Weekend...
I know that I had promised a story, "Sancho Learns to Count." There were problems when I went to write that story, because I only saw the end result of it. I tried to interview Sancho, aka Mike, and he, being so very innocent and all, just glossed over the situation like it was nothing. So, that story will have to wait until I am able to interview Butch. Now Butch may not give a completely unbiased viewpoint on that story, but that is what I am counting on!
To decide which story I would tell about myself was difficult. There were so many weird trips and weird people that I have met. Some will say that I am the strange one, which is partly true, however, not everything is my fault, like this one really bad weekend.
Some hunting seasons I can't go up with the guys and spend the full time there, so I drive up on a weekend. I was anxious this one particular weekend, as I had been going to college and had major burnout from the schoolwork. All I could think of was a nice relaxing weekend, just fishing and resting.
Mike has an old truck, a '63 Ford 4 X 4, with huge 35" tires. It is a monster to drive, a monster to handle--and a monster to look at. Ugly as sin is what this truck is. But, it's a real man's truck to be sure. Mike had left with Butch and that gave me a choice of driving my '78 Corvette (Ha, Butch, you knew I had to work that in somewhere sooner or later!) or the ugly truck. Not much of a choice really, as the Corvette would never go over the roads we drive on, nor would I want to try.
Off in "Mean Green" I went--actually, I would prefer to call it "Mean Bruised" with all the mottled paint that is on there. I must admit, there is some kind of "power" in driving that truck. Generally, people see you come up behind them and they just move over. Maybe they think that I can drive right over them, maybe they think that the truck is so bad looking that I just don't care if it gets smashed up any more than it is. Whatever, it doesn't matter to me. All I know is that I am queen of the road when I drive it.
The truck gets very bad mileage, so there are frequent stops for gas. Well, on one of those stops the pump didn't stop when the tank got full. No sir, it just flowed on, squirting right out and onto me. I immediately ran to the bathroom and washed my shirt with water, but I was wearing jeans and never gave a thought to the thickness of the waistband. Mad, Lord, I can't tell you how mad I was. I cussed out just about everyone who came near me, paid for the gas and off I drove.
No matter how much water you use to wash gasoline off, you can still smell it almost forever! My head hurt from the smell. Of course, it wasn't enough to stink from gasoline. No--I had to go and run over a skunk. Now the stink seemed complete. A concoction that one can not quite describe in words--but the gag reflex says it all.
