Summertime brings an influx of traffic to the highways. Once a year, families insist on renting insanely large vehicles in order to terrorize professional drivers on the road. I have never understood why in the hell they will allow someone who drives a Prius twenty total miles a day to suddenly drive a fifty foot Winnebago, full of every precious thing in their life, across the country. It is a common misconception that just because you have a drivers license, you can drive unnaturally large things. Stop it. Suffer your cross country trip in a 1973 Chevy Impala like I had to, you babies.
We see a lot of these people, they find out the hard way the larger your vehicle, the more difficult it is to find places to park. No more stopping at the 7-Eleven for gas, it’s required that you visit a truck stop when the top of your vehicle is taller than the regular overhang. There’s a separate entrance for them, it’s always in the front, where decent people won’t be scared by all the hideous trucking-types. You can tell when an outsider has wandered too far back into a truck stop, they get all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. (’Well Martha, I have no idea why anyone would want a giant chrome scrotum – put that thing down!’) Sometimes I lurk behind the 7-Up end cap so I can jump out and say, ‘Boo!’, just to watch them pee a little. Kidding. (I only hide behind Coke products.)
I find it hilarious when these people make fun of trucker attire. Granted, not everyone can pull off a sleeveless denim shirt or a giant screaming eagle with flames emblazoned upon every item of clothing you are wearing. I question whether they wear those things because it’s the only clothing choices available in truck stops or if truck stops offer such a limited selection because it’s all truckers will wear. Seriously, ever see a Burberry button down at a truck stop? Chicken and egg, folks, I’m thinking here – follow along.
I want non-trucking people who judge to know, you look equally as ridiculous in your pink golf shirt with matching pink headband, wristbands, socks and visor. And that’s just the dad. The mom gets out in her crimson yoga pants and egg yolk yellow off the shoulder tee, wearing seventeen tank tops underneath. (What the hell is up with wearing nine undershirts of varying lengths? It’s summertime dumbass, it’s hot. Take eight of those bastards off and live a little.) I’m not going to comment on the children, it’s beyond their control their parents are cruel and dress them weird. My mom was fond of Holly Hobbie. That’s all I’m saying.
Be kind to one another people. For the love of God, if you’re going to wear flip flops, cut your damn toenails. There is absolutely nothing worse than having your own foot accidentally brushed against by a long ass toenail while standing in line. (It’s happened to you before, you just blocked it out for self preservation. Unfortunately, my brain tends to dwell on these things, and I will never forget it.) It’s completely unnecessary to have three inch toenails unless you are a sloth. Because you have chosen to polish them and cover them in a diorama of the civil war does not mean they are not totally gross. Please, I am begging you, cut the damn things off.
One last thing for the fellas. If you have ever been shirtless in public and had an officer of the law come to you and ask that you cover your breasts because nursing babies have formed a line around the perimeter, you should never ever again be seen in public shirtless. In fact, having a tee shirt permanently attached with super glue may be an option to look into.
Thank you and enjoy Yellowstone.
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