Last weekend’s shenanigans involved box wine, strawberry wine coolers, anti-depressants, baby oil, Anal Eaze™, whiskey, cheap beer and, of course, unintentional butt sex with a trailer park lady. The sheer excitement of this story will course through your veins not unlike the Vicodin you injected before your shift at the truck stop began. So, let’s get to it.
She drove up in a 1985 Iroc Z-28. I noticed the car before I noticed her. I imagined myself tooling around town in that sweet ride looking like a fuckin’ bad ass while blaring Round and Round by Ratt. All the ladies would be checking out my fine ass. Who knew? I might even finally talk the chick at the gas station into giving me some head in the tire change area of the garage!
Then she stepped out. A 50-something trailer park bird clutching a box of Pinot Grigio with one hand and 3 packs of Parliament soft packs with the other. Her cackle snapped me out of my fantasy world, "Hey big boy! You wanna get fucked up?"
She was attractive, at least as attractive as someone who spent the last 35 years of her life in this shithole raising a trailer full of kids could be. You could tell she did the best she could to take care of herself. But the honest truth is that there’s only so much you can do with White Rain shampoo and a gift basket of soaps that you won playing bingo.
But my experience is that anybody can look good after drinking a box of wine, so it goes without saying that I was game. I holler back, "Hell yeah lady! I hope that ain't the only box you’re offering at this party!" Now most women would be appalled by such a statement. She, however, laughed and seemed even more eager to get on the porch and park her ass in one of my Super Bowl XLV chairs that I stole from Texaco. It took me a couple of weeks, but I finally stole the whole set from the Bud Light display. (This was not an easy task by any means and required feats of white trash daring never before seen. But I digress...that’s another story for another time.) So thus begins my night with the lady who introduced herself to me as Twila.
Twila was ready to party. Not only did she bring an entire box of wine, she also had her own wine glass. Well, I say wine glass. I think it was more of a commemorative champagne glass. She said she bought the whole set at a garage sale. I assumed that meant she had no idea who "Steven and Tammy 1999" were. It seemed like it made her feel classy, so I let her have her moment. I, on the other hand, possessed no such glasses. I was out of Dixie cups and the Yahtzee dice cup that I used to drink whiskey out of the night before was dirty. My only option was to drink out of my prized possession, my #1 Titty Inspector coffee mug. But I knew if I got real shit-faced it would be lost forever. I went through a lot of bullshit to get that mug through Mexican Customs…I sure as hell didn’t want to lose it! (That, too, is another story for another time.) But I said "Fuck it!" and threw what little caution I have to the wind. Also, I had no doubt that the simple act of me having such a coffee mug would be enough to get the juices flowing for ol’ Twila. She never noticed. The fact that her husband was on a long haul and she was getting drunk with one of the hottest dudes in the trailer park was more than she could process. If I had known at the time what she had in store for this piece of white trash, I would have never broke out that gotdamn mug!
HOUR 1: Twila professes her love for Pinot Grigio. "Ya know hun, I love a good Walmart Box of wine. There’s nothin’ like sippin’ a glass of wine on the porch. It's just so fuckin’ classy! Dontcha think?" I said, "Well darlin’, my experience is, if anything is referred to as fuckin’ classy, it probably isn't."
HOUR 2: Twila says it's gettin’ hot. At this point, I was actually thinking about putting on my Pink Monkey Strip Club windbreaker. She runs over to her place and comes back wearing a fuckin’ bikini! Of course if I hadn’t been drinking box wine (with a Vicodin chaser), I probably would have been physically ill by the cigar burn over her left tit and her three separate C-Section scars that made her stomach look like a truck stop road map. But considering the state the box wine had me in, I was turned on like a pit bull when a poodle-daschund mix comes struttin’ her fine ass across the yard.
HOUR 2.5: Twila runs out of box wine. The story might have ended here, if it weren’t for a couple of bottles of Bartles & Jaymes and a 6-pack of Lonestar Light I had left over from my New Years’ Eve shindig. So I get the booze, fill up my mug and we head over to Twila’s place because she has “something she’s gotta show me.”
HOUR 2.75: Now don’t get me wrong, Twila’s got a nice place. I just don’t know how she got that velvet sectional with the recliner seats into her single-wide. But what she had to show me wasn’t in the living room, it was in the bedroom. I step over a broken sit-and-spin and a box of tools on my way to her wood-paneled love nest, which was pretty clean, except for the treasure trove of items sitting atop her red satin comforter: fuzzy pink handcuffs, Anal Eaze™, baby oil and what appeared to be forceps for delivering a baby. Glad I bought that ribbed glow-in-the-dark condom at the truck stop! This was going to get wild!
HOUR 3.0: The next thing I know I am feeling like Jody Foster on a fuckin’ pinball machine! She starts ripping off my sweet ass jorts and is spraying baby oil and Anal Eaze™ all over the damn trailer! The smell of baby oil is in the air and it is intoxicating. I succumb to her advances. She has me restrain her to the wrought iron headboard that depicts a Cowboy riding a bull. The next thing out of her mouth was "IT’S SHOWTIME COWBOY!! STICK IT IN FUNKY TOWN!" I probably wouldn’t have needed her prompting had I not been distracted by the giant 11x14 80s wedding photo of her dressed like Madonna and her trucker hubby looking like a mullet-ed Billy Idol that was staring at me from her nightstand.
HOUR 3.09: I am jumping out of the trailer window! I flew through it, screen and all, minus my treasured #1 Titty Inspector coffee mug. The words, "Baby! I am home!" will light a fire under a white trasher's ass like nobody’s business!
So here I sit with a hell of a dilemma on my hands. As much as I enjoyed our anal adventure, I’m not really up for another go ‘round with Twila. But she has my fucking favorite mug and you can’t just run down to the Dollar General and pick up a replacement. I have a pretty good idea of how I can get it back…but that’s another story for another day.
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