High-value loads

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Updated May 3, 2013

NashvilleEvery once in a while, George will get a “high-value load” — they’re always a pain in the ass because of stopping restrictions and other stupid stuff involved. It’s also scary, because it seems like every single high-value load we’ve ever hauled has originated in the ghetto and is being shipped to an equally obscure and terrifying ghetto across the country. It’s unnerving to pick up a million dollars worth of flat screen televisions from a burnt-out warehouse in the bowels of Nashville. The place looks like a bomb went off in and around it and they still store millions of dollars’ worth of electronics inside. The minute you pull in, you feel like every single criminal within a three mile radius is fully aware you’re getting ready to be loaded with a bunch of easily turned merchandise.

Since I tend to lean just a hair toward paranoid, high value loads are torture for me. I’m absolutely certain every time we pick up a gabillion dollars worth of someone else’s crap, we’re going to be beaten and raped and strewn all over the highway by marauding truck pirates. The first 200 miles of the trip are always the worst — I’m sure every car is following us. After about 200 miles, I forget what’s in the box and fixate on something else. Hey look, a squirrel!

“Ohmigod, I think those guys in the pickup are staring at us.”

“They’re staring at you because you’re putting on lip gloss.”

“No way. They’re staring because they know we have the mother lode of flat screens. They’re plotting to hijack us.”

“Babe, I don’t think you understand. They’re in a tiny truck, we’re in an 18-wheeler. Unless they leap out of the truck, onto the side boards and take the truck by force while I’m moving, they don’t stand a chance. I’d plow right into them without touching the brakes.”

“Would it be OK for me to shoot them after you plow into them? I mean, what good is riding shotgun if you don’t get to shoot anyone?”

“We’re not going to get hijacked.”

“So, that’s a no?”

“Yes. That’s a no. You should probably refrain from shooting people we’ve run over.”

“Did you know a turkey buzzard can eat up to five pounds of rotting flesh in a day?”

“I’m not quite sure where this fits in, but no, I did not know that.”

“Well, you were talking about running people over, and I was imagining leaving them for the turkey buzzards, and then I though about how much a turkey buzzard can eat.”

“Sadly enough, I think I know where this is going.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I knew it.”