A Trailer Trash Biker’s Christmas

For some reason, I still haven’t recovered from the disasters that came to me during the Thanksgiving holiday. It seems that the more I drink to try to forget, the more I remember. Drinking however, is a good thing. Nothing is quite as omnipresent as the power of positive drinking!

The essence of life is, of course, the ability to live without being incarcerated, incapacitated, or persecuted by those individuals that would keep you down, and prevent your intrinsic right to be free. Freedom as we know it however, comes at a very high cost,
especially during the holidays.

I am truly a soldier of misfortune. I recently lost my job at the saw mill because the boss was porking the secretary, and his wife got pissed and took the business. Although I was being paid under the table, the attorneys and accountants for the company said the “incidental and contract labor�? people had to go. I guess I was in that category. I never liked attorneys, but when you really need one, they will still screw you over. You gotta have them though. I even rent one myself, but you would think that I by God own him most times, for as much as he costs.

Although I was making enough to pay the lot rent, and beer budget from this job, I knew the bar would be raised when the ol lady found out that I wasn’t really going to work when I left every morning. The loss of this menial task would also affect my ability to frequent the local gentlemen’s clubs and taverns that desperately need my business. My plight was further intensified when the government cancelled my monthly subsidy checks and food stamp card. It seems that some nosy governmental geek had observed me cruising the town in Uncle Bob’s Escalade and made a report to the central office. I hate rats! As time drew closer to the “Big Holiday�?, things got even worse. Knowing that the ol lady was expecting something really extraordinary for Christmas, and remembering that I wasn’t getting any money in at all was taking a toll on my last brain cell. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I knew I had to sell some shit fast!

A quick survey of the lot yielded several dismal prospects. Being a good southerner, I had been diligent enough to stock my yard with loads of junk. Junk being the key word here, my eyes quickly scanned past the pile of old engine blocks, the heap of twisted motorcycle frames, and the mountain of useless plumbing fixtures. The “best of the worst�? items, and the ones I deemed most valuable were an old John Deere 180 tractor, and an antique hay bailing machine. Neither of these items were “currently operational�? but with my well honed sales technique, I figured I’d be in the money in a matter of hours.

I summoned the ol lady, and the girls from the trailer, and we set about the task of retrieving my old equipment trailer from the pole barn, and rigging it to the Escalade. I lazily swigged a beer, as I watched the quartet of Daisy Duke wannabees push the aging farm equipment up the ramps and onto the flatbed. They squealed and cussed as one of the floorboards gave way under the weight of the tractor, but since the right front tire was now buried a foot deep into the metal frame, I wouldn’t have to waste the extra time binding down my load. When they jumped down, the ol lady asked me where I was taking all this junk. “Down to Grady’s Salvage and Farm Supply�? I replied. An odd look came over her face. “You know Ol’ Grady don’t like you none-too-awful much.�? “Maybe we should go with you, just to make sure tha….�? I stopped her in mid sentence, and said “Ya know, you might just be right about that�?!

You see Grady was an ex-cop from up north, who inherited his family’s junk business here in Florida. He didn’t like the south, and the “ignorant inbreeds �? that inhabited it. He especially hated bikers, and had a special dislike for me and my circle of friends. But he did like the southern gals. A lot! I smiled as I thought to myself how lucky I was to still have Uncle Bob’s 3 semi-pro cuties on my team. Now all I had to do is give the 3 a quick refresher course on “Southern Drawl�?, and the rest would be elementary.

I quickly devised a plan, and sent the ol lady to the trailer to get my framing hammer, the GI-Joe Walkie-Talkie set and the keys to the pickup truck. The plan went like this: Me and the girls would go in first, and the ol lady would take the pickup and wait at the hard road near the entrance to Grady’s. If for some unknown reason there was a problem, I would call her on the walkie-talkie to bring the truck, and the needed implements already stashed in the rear window rifle rack. It was dusk when we left.

As I rolled down the dirt road that led to the junk yard, I saw Grady hunched over an old bush hog mower attachment. Stinking of Gin, sweating and cussing and as usual, Grady seemed to be in a bad mood. Realizing that Christmas would be ruined if I didn’t get some serious money, I would have to do my best to prop up the junk that I had delivered. All the stuff could of course be repaired, that is if you had a masters degree in engineering, and a thousand or so dollars, but I didn’t care. I had an alternate plan. If I couldn’t raise a few grand from the junk I brought, I knew for sure he’d spring for some quality time with the three southern belles I had in tow.

“Hey old man�? I hollered, “Look at this cool stuff I brought ya�?! He glanced at the precious antiques for a moment and scratched his crotch. “Man, you sure come up here with a load of shit, didn’t ya Craven�? he slurred.�? “I dunno if I got no money for this load of crap�?. I then retorted with “Man, you can have all this fine equipment for a reasonable cash donation of three K, or for the same figure, you can have what’s behind door number 2�?. At that moment as if on cue, Amanda, Becky and Crystal hopped out of the rear door of the SUV. Grady’s jaw dropped as he viewed the display of fresh meat before him. “Gawddamit dude, you out done yerself this time�? he blurted with a grin a mile wide. “Hell, I would rather have these here gals than that other junk you brought here�?. As he drooled with delight, I reminded him that “it is what it is�? and all sales are final. It was about this time when one of the girls said that they were all “down with that�?, and it was then that the deal went bad. Realizing that the girls weren’t authentic GRITS (girls raised in the south), ol Grady started jumping up and down and cussing about how I tried to bring him damaged goods. He spun, and grabbed a steel pipe which he began flailing towards me and the girls, and after a very near miss, I reached for the hammer I had secreted in my belt near the small of my back. Still cussing, Grady wound his pipe up for the home run and I smacked him in the gourd with the broad side of the hammer. He was on the ground kicking and spinning like a sprayed roach, still flailing the pipe and yelling obscenities when I gave him a size 13 tranquilizer with my right foot. As he took a nap, Crystal and Becky went through his pockets, and retrieved about 40 bucks and an old pouch of Red Man. I grabbed the GI Joe walkie-talkie from my vest and sent the “code red�? signal. A moment later, the ol lady slides the pickup to a halt in a cloud of dust, and jumps out with my Winchester. Seeing Grady snoozing, she tossed it back in the front seat of the truck and joined Amanda and myself on a spontaneous Christmas shopping spree. Becky and Crystal were already looting the farm supply store for things that they thought we could use as gifts. We all rejoiced as we quickly loaded the pickup with our spoils. This would truly be a great Christmas!

It was definitely time to haul ass, as the junk man was waking up, and when I floored the SUV to depart, the make-shift hitch broke, leaving the trailer and the priceless antique farm gear in Grady’s gravel parking lot. There was no time to worry about that however, and in my mind, I knew that Grady would enjoy having that fine equipment in exchange for all the stuff we had taken. We blasted down the highway, and arrived back at the trailer in record time. We hid the pickup and our loot in the pole barn to assure that the inevitable visit from our local constable would be uneventful.

Later, I enjoyed killing a six pack “just to watch it die�?, as I wrapped some Christmas presents in brown paper grocery bags as I have done for so many years. Then it came to me. The vision of Christmas past, present and future, and all that other crap. I immediately tore off a piece of a grocery sack, and wrote down these words in respect for a poem I had heard somewhere in the past.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when I left the trailer, with an old shot-out tractor and a broken hay bailer. Looking for funds I did roll in the night, little did I know it would end up in a fight.

As my quest carried on for the almighty dollar, get the F#(k out, I heard the junk buyer holler! So I smacked his fat head with a 20 ounce hammer, then he spit and he fell and began to stammer, “you redneck bikers just ain’t right!�? So I kicked him with my boot and put out his lights.

When I left the junk yard with the greatest of speed, I remembered to steal all the gifts that I need. A mixer, a toaster, a toilet, a bike, and all the cool things that the ol lady likes!

Some spark plugs some pipes, and a transmission case, and a big rear-view mirror, so she can do her face. Some firearms, some chairs, a cooler and grill, and a big roll of tubing for my moonshine still.

With all these cool presents loaded up in my truck, I blasted down the highway like I don’t give a f#(k..

Now that I’m home, and the loots out of sight, merry Christmas to y’all and have a good f#(kin night!

When the Sheriffs arrived at the trailer with a warrant for my arrest, the girls all swore that I wasn’t at the junk yard at all. They also said that I hadn’t been home for weeks. As I hid in my neighbors shed, I heard them tell them that I was partying with my attorney in Costa Rica. I have included a picture in this story as evidence. All y’all help me out by verifying this story should you be questioned during this on-going investigation. I appreciate your support! Merry Christmas to all, and I will see you at Tijuana Bike