Recently, my brainiac brother-in-law with the Ph.D. in Environmental Engineering remained after quite an investment of time unable to figger out how a piece that clearly belonged ON a coffeemaker actually attached TO the coffeemaker, so that said coffemaker would again make coffee. A mysterious piece of white plastic on the counter next to a coffeemaker that suddenly won’t make coffee, when it is the same color and finish as the plastic ON the coffeemaker, dispenses with the mystery of WHAT and brings the mystery of HOW into relief.
Opinions R Us.
Hey! Maybe it attaches UNDER this piece, so that when the carafe slides in and presses THIS piece, it presses down on THAT piece, like this.
The proof is in the pudding, eh?
My brainiac brother-in-law muttered under his breath that I have “the engineering sense of Lucy Ricardo.” Under his breath, like that’s an insult. On the contrary, I take that as high praise.
I propose to set off into the wild blue yonder on January 1st. New Year + New Leaf + New Life = Gypsy Journalism.
As ever, it takes money to make money.
Probably a bunch of y’all are rummaging around for the envelope and stamp necessary to the procedure of sending me ONE DOLLAR, and I surely do appreciate that. Having relinquished myself to Homelessness on the 1st of May, I have TOTAL empathy for how hard it can be to find Stuff. Stuff that I am TRYING to leave behind, but that has the tenacious stick-to-it-ive-ness of gum on my shoe.
Bright Ideas do not buy RV’s or gas or equipment or food unless Bright Ideas are SOLD. Since trucks and truckers are integral to Life On The Road, and since I’m singin’ for my supper, I got to thinkin’ that maybe I could write a SONG for Truckers and that maybe some Good Samaritan Slash Good Ol’ Boy country music kinda guy might BUY it. Outright. Maybe only ‘cuz he feels sorry for me, but maybe nonetheless. These are not my proudest moments. But neither are they my country’s proudest moments, and I didn’t start it. When in Rome, y’know what I’m sayin’?
Anyhoo, the working title is DON’T FUCK WITH MY TRUCK. Think of a TRUCK as a man’s OTHER castle. The little (*)’s indicate my awareness that some manner of hootenanny mumbo jumbo goes there, but far be it from my urban self to presume to know what it is, or even GUESS at the phonetics.
DON’T FUCK WITH MY TRUCK
Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark
Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck
The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck
All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*). WE DRIVE TRUCK.
While they argue ‘round and round in little circle jerks
Raise funds and Par-taay, give themselves all the perks
While the gas creeps up and the shipping drops down
And the Independent is stripped of his crown
While men loose castles and city turns ghost town
And telling the Truth gits you an Official Frown
No rain, no snow, no sleet, hail or Heil
Stops us from clocking mile after mile
We keep eyes on poor roads, worse drivers and the puck
We’re the backbone of Consumerism, (*). WE DRIVE TRUCK.
Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark
Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck
The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck
All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*) WE DRIVE TRUCK.
While we lost our big rigs one by one
Go bankrupt or go to work for The Man
While you lose your houses ten by ten
Suck it up and go to work for The Man
While the jobs dry up and the storefronts close
And bankers are bailed, not punched in the nose
The goods that arrive at Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard
Arrive by pedal to metal and with coffee on dashboard
While we cower before Servants who forbid us to say FUCK
What game we still got goes by us, (*). WE DRIVE TRUCK.
Flyin’ down the highway in the early morning dark
Us, the sun and Son of God work hard to make a buck
The Sun and Son are steady but Man could use some luck
All your Stuff, it comes through us, (*) WE DRIVE TRUCK.
I agree, now that I see red, it needs some work. Still, I think it’s got potential. Like me.
Good job!