This is about a guy we'll just call stupid. I tell this story all the time and I've actually had people tell me I should do a stand-up routine based on this story. Here we go.....
"This guy named stupid is so hillbilly.........
His mother doesn't know who his father is.
In fact, she doesn't know who his brother's father is, either.
Neither he nor his brother got any farther than junior year of high school.
His whole immediate AND extended family lives in trailors.
These trailors don't have air conditioning.
His mother's trailor is FULL of Dale Earnhardt (I don't care if I spelled that right) crap. I'm talking mugs, posters, die-cast cars, trading cards, twinkie boxes, etc.
Once, when stupid and I were visiting his parents, his cousin and her infant were there, too. His mother and her FIFTH (yes, I said FIFTH) husband proceeded to light up a bowl of an unmentionable illegal herb WHILE THE BABY WAS NAPPING IN THE SAME DAMN ROOM!
Did I mention that stupid's mother is on husband #5?
He and his brother have been in and out of jail since they were 16. They're now 30 and 28, respectively.
His brother got sent to his last stint in jail for robbing the grocery store their mom worked at at gunpoint for money for his meth habit.
Stupid's 17 year old cousin makes meth in the trailor that she shares with her "boyfriend" and their child.
His idea of fun is going carp fishing in retention ponds in apartment complexes while drinking beer, namely Budweiser.
Stupid has never had a job more serious than shift supervisor at KFC. And let's not forget that he's now 30.
Not a single person in the family has a career or anything even resembling a career. Hell, hardly any of them have anything resembling a JOB.
Stupid doesn't have a valid driver's license.
Neither does his brother.
His mom MIGHT.
Does that stop anyone from driving?
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
His mom's trailor isn't in a trailor park; it's in a cluster of about 10 trailors that are just randomly thrown on the side of a road in southern (insert name of state we both happen to live in).
His mom doesn't have a phone, so she gives out the number of the woman living in the crappy trailor next to HER crappy trailor and that neighbor just yells out the kitchen window to let her know she has a phone call.
Last time I was at his mom's crappy trailor, all she had in the fridge was Budweiser, bologna, and a loaf of bread.
No one in the family has ever left the state--for anything.
EVERYONE in the family chain smokes like it's going out of style. While they're drinking their nasty beer. While they're fishing.
So now that you've got a picture of this family in your head, I have one more tidbit of hilljack-ness for you (in case you were doubting their dedication to being hilljacks):
His mom is only about 46 or 47. She is not old by any means. There is no reason for this. She has no intention of fixing this. She makes to attempt to hide this. Are you ready?
His mom has no front teeth.
Showing posts with label random hilarity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random hilarity. Show all posts
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
The story about the air conditioner
When I was 17, I was a junior in high school and I had just gotten my driver's license. I could only drive automatic transmission cars and my mom had a stick. I was stupid and so were my friends. We drank a little when we could get a hold of it, but we usually just stuck to a plant of an illegal variety.
They (my family) all decided to go on vacation in July and I couldn't go because of work.
Great idea, folks. Leave a 17 year old home alone for 2 weeks.
They took my car because it was the biggest and most reliable. That left me with 2 means of transportation--a stick shift car and a GIANT work truck painted the same color as a school bus.
THIS COLOR.
I decided to take a crash course in stick-shift driving. Then the car broke. Like 2 days after I learned to drive it.
So I was forced to drive this god-awful, huge, bright, beat-up truck around town. My friends thought it was great. "Let's take a ride in the big yellow truck" and the sort. I fucking HATED driving this damn thing. There is nothing worse than having MORE attention drawn to you when you're an awkward, socially inept high schooler. Blech.
Of course my house was the hangout place those 2 weeks since my parents were out of town. We had gotten a hold of some of the afforementioned illegal plant and made a smoking device out of an empty beer can (just ask--I could teach a class on it). Then we got the great idea to actually leave the house.
I tell ya, the brillance could have put a diamond to shame.
"Let's take the big yellow truck!!!!!"
This sounds great when you're high, of course.
So we take it. I am laughing and looking in the mirrors making sure I am not backing over any of my friends, down the long skinny driveway, and I manage to get the truck OVER the garden barriers, THROUGH the garden, and INTO the air conditioning unit that sits on the side of the house.
You know what I'm talking about--that big-ass metal box that keeps your house comfy in the summer.
I HIT IT WITH A TRUCK.
I guess it's a good thing we were high, cause if we weren't, I'm positive oneof us would have had an actual heart attack right there in the driveway.
Picture 3 teenaged girls outside in the middle of July, high as hell, trying to set an air conditioning unit upright onto cinderblock mounts in a garden on the side of a house.
Those damn things are HEAVY! We got it back into place, but all of those little metal sheets that make up the outside were dented and bent and smashed--it LOOKED like it got hit with a truck.
Fast forward to 3 hours later, I get home, and the house was HOT AS HELL. I'm talking, like, 90 degrees INSIDE. That is just not going to work for a city-girl. Yeah, I'm a city-girl. Sue me.
I did the only thing I knew to do. I called mom and dad on vacation. The conversation went as follows:
Me: "So the air conditioner broke today. It's really hot in here. What should I do?"
M&D: "Well go down in the basement and unplug XYZ and restart ABC and it should work"
AND IT FUCKING WORKS! HAHAHAHAHA!
They gave me instructions based on what they do when the air just flips out sometimes. I managed to get it running again.
From that day forth, my and AC have had a special bond. No one has ever said ANYTHING about the condition of the outdoor unit. The truck is long gone. And I do not drive trucks when I'm high.
Lesson learned.
They (my family) all decided to go on vacation in July and I couldn't go because of work.
Great idea, folks. Leave a 17 year old home alone for 2 weeks.
They took my car because it was the biggest and most reliable. That left me with 2 means of transportation--a stick shift car and a GIANT work truck painted the same color as a school bus.
THIS COLOR.
I decided to take a crash course in stick-shift driving. Then the car broke. Like 2 days after I learned to drive it.
So I was forced to drive this god-awful, huge, bright, beat-up truck around town. My friends thought it was great. "Let's take a ride in the big yellow truck" and the sort. I fucking HATED driving this damn thing. There is nothing worse than having MORE attention drawn to you when you're an awkward, socially inept high schooler. Blech.
Of course my house was the hangout place those 2 weeks since my parents were out of town. We had gotten a hold of some of the afforementioned illegal plant and made a smoking device out of an empty beer can (just ask--I could teach a class on it). Then we got the great idea to actually leave the house.
I tell ya, the brillance could have put a diamond to shame.
"Let's take the big yellow truck!!!!!"
This sounds great when you're high, of course.
So we take it. I am laughing and looking in the mirrors making sure I am not backing over any of my friends, down the long skinny driveway, and I manage to get the truck OVER the garden barriers, THROUGH the garden, and INTO the air conditioning unit that sits on the side of the house.
You know what I'm talking about--that big-ass metal box that keeps your house comfy in the summer.
I HIT IT WITH A TRUCK.
I guess it's a good thing we were high, cause if we weren't, I'm positive oneof us would have had an actual heart attack right there in the driveway.
Picture 3 teenaged girls outside in the middle of July, high as hell, trying to set an air conditioning unit upright onto cinderblock mounts in a garden on the side of a house.
Those damn things are HEAVY! We got it back into place, but all of those little metal sheets that make up the outside were dented and bent and smashed--it LOOKED like it got hit with a truck.
Fast forward to 3 hours later, I get home, and the house was HOT AS HELL. I'm talking, like, 90 degrees INSIDE. That is just not going to work for a city-girl. Yeah, I'm a city-girl. Sue me.
I did the only thing I knew to do. I called mom and dad on vacation. The conversation went as follows:
Me: "So the air conditioner broke today. It's really hot in here. What should I do?"
M&D: "Well go down in the basement and unplug XYZ and restart ABC and it should work"
AND IT FUCKING WORKS! HAHAHAHAHA!
They gave me instructions based on what they do when the air just flips out sometimes. I managed to get it running again.
From that day forth, my and AC have had a special bond. No one has ever said ANYTHING about the condition of the outdoor unit. The truck is long gone. And I do not drive trucks when I'm high.
Lesson learned.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
my car vs. a guardrail
For anyone who THOUGHT they knew me and wasn't sure, this story will give it away. If you're TRULY my friend IRL, you've heard this.
Anyway, one night my friend Sam* and I decided to have a few drinks. Turns out she's a lightweight, so she had ONE drink and I had 2.5-ish bottles of wine (bad idea #1).
The playing field is a bit uneven, eh?
So I decided to drive myself home (bad idea #2). I was going to call my best friend Bob1 (more on his story later--he's an adventure, indeed) and just as I was saying "hello" to him, I hit a guardrail. Let me give details.
Sam's neighborhood has these HUGE metal guardrails on the sides of the road because it's on a tiny-ass hill with a creek/puddle at the bottom, so I guess the city decided that they would prevent people from falling in the oversized puddle with some SUPERSIZED metal bumpers. Only they don't "bump", per se.
It's more like a CRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNCH sound.
Followed by a SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH sound.
All of which Bob1 heard over the phone.
See, I wasn't sure he had heard it, so I quickly hung up, thinking I could escape ridicule and mocking for AT LEAST 24 hours.
Nah, he heard it. He called me back like 2 minutes later and goes, "Did you just crash your car?!"
So I gave him the rundown of the situation:
I had hit the guardrail with my passenger side door. The car was still driveable, so I just needed to secure the moulding strip back to the side of the door and all would be fine and well. I instructed him to bring the super-glue over to my house on his way home from work.
Mind you, I've had 2.5-ish bottles of wine and the super-glue in question is the smallest tube it is humanly possible to buy.
He brings said super-glue to my house. He then proceeds to watch me park my car, stare at the damage, try relentlessly to glue the mouling back to the incredibly dented door (but I don't realize it's dented that badly because it's 11:30pm and I am intoxicated), and LAUGH. He might have pissed himself--I can't be sure. I was busy "fixing" my door. Outside. In the dark. With a tube of super-glue no bigger than my pinky finger.
What a great friend. He KNEW that door wasn't getting fixed with any damn super-glue. I suppose I am just incredibly entertaining when I've been drinking.
So the next day when I'm at work he stops by. He is laughing as he walks in the door. I ask him if he could pop the "dent" out. He laughs more. We go outside and look. He continues laughing. His exact words to me:
"Your dad is going to have a heart attack when he sees this."
Yeah, thanks, I know.
(My dad is a mechanic. He is obsessed with cars. When I don't wash mine regularly, he complains.)
Seriously, can YOU picture a drunk girl at almost midnight with a TINY ASS tube of super-glue, trying to glue a car door back together without laughing??
I think not, my friend.
Anyway, one night my friend Sam* and I decided to have a few drinks. Turns out she's a lightweight, so she had ONE drink and I had 2.5-ish bottles of wine (bad idea #1).
The playing field is a bit uneven, eh?
So I decided to drive myself home (bad idea #2). I was going to call my best friend Bob1 (more on his story later--he's an adventure, indeed) and just as I was saying "hello" to him, I hit a guardrail. Let me give details.
Sam's neighborhood has these HUGE metal guardrails on the sides of the road because it's on a tiny-ass hill with a creek/puddle at the bottom, so I guess the city decided that they would prevent people from falling in the oversized puddle with some SUPERSIZED metal bumpers. Only they don't "bump", per se.
It's more like a CRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNCH sound.
Followed by a SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH sound.
All of which Bob1 heard over the phone.
See, I wasn't sure he had heard it, so I quickly hung up, thinking I could escape ridicule and mocking for AT LEAST 24 hours.
Nah, he heard it. He called me back like 2 minutes later and goes, "Did you just crash your car?!"
So I gave him the rundown of the situation:
I had hit the guardrail with my passenger side door. The car was still driveable, so I just needed to secure the moulding strip back to the side of the door and all would be fine and well. I instructed him to bring the super-glue over to my house on his way home from work.
Mind you, I've had 2.5-ish bottles of wine and the super-glue in question is the smallest tube it is humanly possible to buy.
He brings said super-glue to my house. He then proceeds to watch me park my car, stare at the damage, try relentlessly to glue the mouling back to the incredibly dented door (but I don't realize it's dented that badly because it's 11:30pm and I am intoxicated), and LAUGH. He might have pissed himself--I can't be sure. I was busy "fixing" my door. Outside. In the dark. With a tube of super-glue no bigger than my pinky finger.
What a great friend. He KNEW that door wasn't getting fixed with any damn super-glue. I suppose I am just incredibly entertaining when I've been drinking.
So the next day when I'm at work he stops by. He is laughing as he walks in the door. I ask him if he could pop the "dent" out. He laughs more. We go outside and look. He continues laughing. His exact words to me:
"Your dad is going to have a heart attack when he sees this."
Yeah, thanks, I know.
(My dad is a mechanic. He is obsessed with cars. When I don't wash mine regularly, he complains.)
Seriously, can YOU picture a drunk girl at almost midnight with a TINY ASS tube of super-glue, trying to glue a car door back together without laughing??
I think not, my friend.
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