uscrebel
07-30-2005, 05:32 PM
I posted this on another board earlier today, I won't go into why, it's a true story. I thought Geaux Geaux, NeesyMan, and Beedsy Boy in particular would appreciate it.
The last time I wet my pants was when I was 17. I was riding in a the bed of a pick up with three other friends on a gravel road outside of Alcorn, MS. We had been "fishing" at one of the local "watering holes" and were driving like fifty MPH down this gravel road playing a game we, in our drunken euphoria, called Switch Out.
Playing Switch Out involved three to four players...preferably not too bright or sober...the ideal player lacked both intelligence and sobriety. In the four player version of the game, three players stood in the bed of the pickup behind the cab and one player drove the truck. The player in the middle behind the cab would bang loudly on the roof. On this signal, the player to his right would lean over and open the passenger door and the driver would put the truck in neutral and open the driverside door. (Remember, the truck is going between 40 and 50 MPH.) As the player to the right slides in, the driver slides out. The right player slides under the wheel and puts the truck back in gear. The driver climbs into the bed. The center player moves to the right. The left player moves to the center and the process begins again.
On this particular day, I was with my friends HF, RC, and DF (names have been disguised to protect the ignorant). HF was in the drivers seat and I was on the left side, having just done my turn as driver. I may have failed to mention that the cab of the pickup included several quarts of beer and it was the drivers perogative to wet his whistle after riding in the back. Anyone finishing a quart was obliged to toss the bottle as he was making the shift to the back. DF was in the center and he banged on the roof. HF was polishing off a quart as he slapped the truck into neutral. I was shifting to the center as I saw the driver's door open. Something didn't seem right. I looked to my left and there was no HF. I glanced over my shoulder to see him rolling off the gravel road into the bushes...quart bottle firmly clutched in this hand. DF was next to me screaming something and pointing at the passenger side door and the truck seemed a lot more wobbly than usual.
Peering into the cab of the truck I saw RC pulling at something and screaming something like "Cut it, damnit, cut it!" As my glance traveled back to the door, I freaked.
When we had left that morning, we had very little money. RC had put on his overalls because he could shove two quarts down the front of the bib and we would put assorted cold cuts down the back. After hitting three or four country stores we usually had eight quarts in addition to the four or five we would buy. Along with four or five packs of ham and a squashed loaf of bed, it made for real Mississippi picnic on a hot summer afternoon. It was the overalls that were the culprit.
As RC was sliding into the passengers side of the cab, one of the straps of his bib came undone. It managed to get caught in the door as he slammed it shut. The buckle of the strap jammed the door and kept it from opening. So, DF and me were in the back of the truck, HF had completely disappeared in the bushes a quarter mile back on the road, RC was stuck in the door, and the truck (in neutral) was gaining speed as we headed downhill without a driver. I could hear the scream and the cursewords, but I didn't realize that they were coming from me. DF kept saying, "You do it! You do it!" but I was freaking out. The truck hit something and started to travel sideways on the gravel. DF grabbed me by the collar and shouted, "Drive, a$$hole, Drive!
I'm not sure exactly what happened next, because the next thing I remember is sitting with the wheel in my hands and a huge cloud of dust enveloping the entire truck. My heart was going like 10,000 beats a second and I felt a strange warm sensation in my lower extremities. I was in a complete daze. As I looked down, I saw that I had peed in my pants. From somewhere far away I heard a banging and a voice saying, "Bud? Bud?"
I looked around and saw DF stretched out in the back of the bed flailing his arms and legs making the horrible banging noises. As I continued my dazed review of the scene, I saw RC shoving a half-finished quart bottle of Budweiser at me, saying, "Bud? Bud? You want the rest of this, man?"
I got out and finally opened the passenger door. RC climbed out and we went behind the truck and started yelling at DF. He eventually quit flailing and screaming. At that point, we remembered HF. I got back in the cab and we turned around, RC and DF leaning out the bed inspected the side of the road. About half a mile up the road we found HF. He was really scraped up, not so much by the tumble on the road, but by the blackberry vines he had rolled in. Around his right index finger was the remnants of a Budweiser quart bottle. It seems that just before he had opened the door, he had jammed his finger into the neck of the bottle. "I thought it would be easier than holding on to it," was his explanation. He failed to realize that having a quart bottle stuck to the end of his finger would make it difficult to grab the edge of the bed and climb in. DF and I were on the verge of killing him, when RC said, "Hey these blackberries are good. Want some?"
I looked around. DF had the same tell-tale dark spot around his crotch that I did. HF was scratched from head to toe and was trying to get the bottleneck off of his finger. RC was sitting on the side of the road, overalls strap torn and frayed, purple stains from the blackberries running down his chin, finishing off the last of the quarts. He looked up at us and said, "Okay, I think its my turn as driver."
That was the last time I ever wet my pants.
The last time I wet my pants was when I was 17. I was riding in a the bed of a pick up with three other friends on a gravel road outside of Alcorn, MS. We had been "fishing" at one of the local "watering holes" and were driving like fifty MPH down this gravel road playing a game we, in our drunken euphoria, called Switch Out.
Playing Switch Out involved three to four players...preferably not too bright or sober...the ideal player lacked both intelligence and sobriety. In the four player version of the game, three players stood in the bed of the pickup behind the cab and one player drove the truck. The player in the middle behind the cab would bang loudly on the roof. On this signal, the player to his right would lean over and open the passenger door and the driver would put the truck in neutral and open the driverside door. (Remember, the truck is going between 40 and 50 MPH.) As the player to the right slides in, the driver slides out. The right player slides under the wheel and puts the truck back in gear. The driver climbs into the bed. The center player moves to the right. The left player moves to the center and the process begins again.
On this particular day, I was with my friends HF, RC, and DF (names have been disguised to protect the ignorant). HF was in the drivers seat and I was on the left side, having just done my turn as driver. I may have failed to mention that the cab of the pickup included several quarts of beer and it was the drivers perogative to wet his whistle after riding in the back. Anyone finishing a quart was obliged to toss the bottle as he was making the shift to the back. DF was in the center and he banged on the roof. HF was polishing off a quart as he slapped the truck into neutral. I was shifting to the center as I saw the driver's door open. Something didn't seem right. I looked to my left and there was no HF. I glanced over my shoulder to see him rolling off the gravel road into the bushes...quart bottle firmly clutched in this hand. DF was next to me screaming something and pointing at the passenger side door and the truck seemed a lot more wobbly than usual.
Peering into the cab of the truck I saw RC pulling at something and screaming something like "Cut it, damnit, cut it!" As my glance traveled back to the door, I freaked.
When we had left that morning, we had very little money. RC had put on his overalls because he could shove two quarts down the front of the bib and we would put assorted cold cuts down the back. After hitting three or four country stores we usually had eight quarts in addition to the four or five we would buy. Along with four or five packs of ham and a squashed loaf of bed, it made for real Mississippi picnic on a hot summer afternoon. It was the overalls that were the culprit.
As RC was sliding into the passengers side of the cab, one of the straps of his bib came undone. It managed to get caught in the door as he slammed it shut. The buckle of the strap jammed the door and kept it from opening. So, DF and me were in the back of the truck, HF had completely disappeared in the bushes a quarter mile back on the road, RC was stuck in the door, and the truck (in neutral) was gaining speed as we headed downhill without a driver. I could hear the scream and the cursewords, but I didn't realize that they were coming from me. DF kept saying, "You do it! You do it!" but I was freaking out. The truck hit something and started to travel sideways on the gravel. DF grabbed me by the collar and shouted, "Drive, a$$hole, Drive!
I'm not sure exactly what happened next, because the next thing I remember is sitting with the wheel in my hands and a huge cloud of dust enveloping the entire truck. My heart was going like 10,000 beats a second and I felt a strange warm sensation in my lower extremities. I was in a complete daze. As I looked down, I saw that I had peed in my pants. From somewhere far away I heard a banging and a voice saying, "Bud? Bud?"
I looked around and saw DF stretched out in the back of the bed flailing his arms and legs making the horrible banging noises. As I continued my dazed review of the scene, I saw RC shoving a half-finished quart bottle of Budweiser at me, saying, "Bud? Bud? You want the rest of this, man?"
I got out and finally opened the passenger door. RC climbed out and we went behind the truck and started yelling at DF. He eventually quit flailing and screaming. At that point, we remembered HF. I got back in the cab and we turned around, RC and DF leaning out the bed inspected the side of the road. About half a mile up the road we found HF. He was really scraped up, not so much by the tumble on the road, but by the blackberry vines he had rolled in. Around his right index finger was the remnants of a Budweiser quart bottle. It seems that just before he had opened the door, he had jammed his finger into the neck of the bottle. "I thought it would be easier than holding on to it," was his explanation. He failed to realize that having a quart bottle stuck to the end of his finger would make it difficult to grab the edge of the bed and climb in. DF and I were on the verge of killing him, when RC said, "Hey these blackberries are good. Want some?"
I looked around. DF had the same tell-tale dark spot around his crotch that I did. HF was scratched from head to toe and was trying to get the bottleneck off of his finger. RC was sitting on the side of the road, overalls strap torn and frayed, purple stains from the blackberries running down his chin, finishing off the last of the quarts. He looked up at us and said, "Okay, I think its my turn as driver."
That was the last time I ever wet my pants.