| Straight
from the holler.
by Buck
May 5, 2008
Well,
greetings fans….I must admit I have been shamed into forcing my ass to
pen an update for the WVSR. I read the most recent update from Mr. K
that appeared on my computer hard drive. There were a couple of things
that sparked me. First was the fact that we’re nearing 10-Million
visitors. I’d like to think I had at least a small part in keeping
them around for a while. Rush Limbaugh talking about a trash-ass
counting the number of fucks in Deadwood was probably a far greater
incubator of lunacy surfers for the site than an update from Buck.
Nevertheless, I’d love to be part of the 10-Millionth visitor read.
I’m wondering if bells and whistles start going off when the
10-Millionth hit happens. I’m just curious to see if Amazon.com will
load up I-pods for everybody that logs on that day. Whatever.
The other thing that sparked me to get busy was Jeff’s hurtful
comments about a lack of updates from contributing members. Normally
I’m not offended by anything Jeff Kay says, hell…look at the man.
Would you be upset? However, when I realized that shiftless lazy ass
Metten had finally done something I figured enough was enough. The
departure of the Angry White Guy’s regular musings left me as the
self-proclaimed contributor emeritus to the WVSR. A broken man from the
Midwest
sitting in the
middle of a make-shift Barbie land with hillbillies assaulting his
daughter just won’t do.
So without
further ado…here’s what happening in my sad and dark corner of the
world.
You’ll recall the last installment I shared with you I talked about
the freaks next door who installed a Jacuzzi in a drunken stupor. Well,
they finally got the thing running.
It’s situated between their house and a little tool shed. The
other day I went out to work at
3:00
in the morning.
Normally the street is all quiet at that hour, but there was the clear
sound of splashing water and erotic pleasure. That’s right, the
neighbors’ 19-year old daughter was “christening” the hot tub. I
tried not to listen, but something like that is hard to block out. I
clearly heard that unmistakable sound of sexual euphoria—which was
quickly replaced by the sound of pain and anguish. It was as if somebody
ran the rocking chair over the tail of a cat. Then I heard a guy’s
voice say, “Oh shit…it’s your back again isn’t it.” The Hell?
She’s 19- years old----A BACK INJURY? She’s apparently learned a lot
from her Dad, but not completely. I don’t think Workers Comp will give
her permanent total disability for wrenching her back while performing
circus sex in a hot tub.
There was a
story around here a few days ago about NFL football star Randy Moss.
He’s from the
Charleston
area and still comes back here a lot to “hang with his
boys” from
Rand
. The locals are a
little mixed on his status. Most like to have a local guy who hits the
big time. However, with Randy—he didn’t have a lot of love for the
locals. He resented being brought up in what he considered a very
bigoted and prejudice hometown. He has a point—old habits die hard
here in the hills. However, he announced he’s starting a NASCAR team.
I have to wonder if a sport who’s participants and fan base is
dominated by southern white guys will give him any more peace of mind.
You know shit
is getting deep when you go to
Speedway
to fill the
tank—and you can’t because the credit card company cuts you off at
50-dollars. Holy Fucking Cow. I remember my days as a Domino’s Pizza
Delivery Driver. I didn’t realize how good life was at that point in
my sorted childhood. I had a used 1981 Honda Civic. I could fill the
tank from bone dry for the grand sum of 8-dollars. I would then deliver
overpriced pizzas to drunken buffoons who were so happy they were
tossing out five and ten dollar tips without realizing it. At the end of
the night, the manager would doll out 14-cents for each pizza you
delivered, you’d get an hourly paycheck at minimum wage payment with
almost 40-hours of overtime too every two weeks, and every night the tip
jar in the floorboard of my Honda would be flush with cash. I had few if
any bills and was blowing money on beer and bullshit. Ah, the glory
days.
I may have imparted this story before, but the Dominoes memories
reminded me of the weirdest delivery. The Trail Motel in our town was a
cheap dump. It had been there since before the days of the interstate
highway and most of the folks who stayed there were usually out-of-town
guys doing gas and oil exploration or had come there to meet up with
somebody else’s wife to have torrid sex. It was a pretty narrow
clientele. Amazingly however, I never recall hearing anything about a
crime going down at that place. Drugs were a problem, but I don’t
think the Trail was a hive of activity in those days. I delivered pizza
there often, but the only other time I had been there was when my mom
insisted we all get gussied up and go there to sit for a family
portrait. They called her with some kind of a deal and she bit. The
photographer was set up in one of the rooms. Yeah, it was a “high
dollar” operation.
Anyway, it was New Years Eve and I was dropping off a pepperoni pie to
the local “no-tell motel.” I knocked on the door and an extremely
drunk or high woman came to the store. As my mother would say she was
“necked as a jay-bird”. She was clutching the neck of a champagne
bottle. Lying passed out in the bed was a guy who had also assumed
“jay-bird” status. She stared at me with a blank look then handed me
the bottle of champagne. I handed her the pizza while she fished a $100
bill out of her purse. She then HANDED ME THE PIZZA, said, “Keep the
change” and closed the door. I left with the pizza, a third of a
bottle of champagne, a 91-dollar tip, and a view of a naked, drunk,
whore whose image is seared into my conscious forever. What a way to
welcome a new year.
Okay, I’m tapped out. Who knows when I’ll pen a new update…until
then ya’ll take care.
Buck Out
|
