In my 27+ years of driving, I’ve probably logged close to 2.5 million miles. That’s a lot of windshield time, and much of it was spent gazing the roadway for creatures who inevitably stroll into harms way.
Sadly, despite my cat-like reflexes and defensive driving prowess, critter-death is often inevitable. I used to keep count, but the numbers began to click away like fence posts on a deserted stretch of freeway. Each one, to be perfectly frank, left an indelible impression on my soul.
Sure, I’ve become somewhat hardened to an occasional possum or squirrel scurrying under my tires at the last possible moment…but one does not simply forget
slamming into a 215 pound domesticated pink house-pig named “Luther,” who ambled onto a lonely stretch of Lenoir County highway back in December of ’88.
The look on a seagull face as it planted into my windshield at 70 mph whilst illegally passing a loaded hog truck (me, not the seagull) in the spring of 2013 left me in absolute shambles.
And I’m still haunted…to this very day…by the “Great Hillcrest Massacre of 1990.” That night, a gaggle of neighborhood geese inexplicably decided to take a midnight stroll across a lonely highway ten minutes after midnight, much to the chagrin of my Toyota Celica.
To this day, I’m unable to look a goose in the eye, much less lay my head upon a goose-down pillow. Oh, the humanity. Or goosanity…or gosling-anity…whatever. It was bad, man. Really bad.
Deer, snakes, foxes, bullfrogs, armadillos, chickens, skunks…only the animal kingdom can grasp the accidental trail of death and destruction I’ve forged from Eastern NC to Oklahoma.
I’ve taken no pride in any of their deaths, mind you. I have not treated it as some sordid badge of honor, but rather a tarnished stain that I must sadly wear upon my leather driving gloves. None of this, however, prepared me for February 17th, 2016:
Two animals, one truck, SAME TIME…a true circle-of-life type deal. A Two-fer, as it would come to be known. Allow me to illustrate:
It was a weekday morning no different than any other before it. I was heading down the highway sipping coffee and swaying to the dulcet tones of James Hetfield when my life changed forever. The sun was up, visibility was clear, and traffic was minimal. My 35 mile morning commute has always been rather blase’, winding me through the back roads of Eastern NC. There’s very little to look at and even less to lookout for, save for the occasional whitetail deer or struggling box turtle crossing the highway. Typically, it’s the early evenings that bring out the wildlife that wreak havoc on my psyche (and front bumper), not the morning.
About 1/3 of the way through my lonely commute, I crossed a bridge spanning Contentnea Creek. From there, the road opened up into a 2-mile stretch that I call “The Straightaway.” It’s an excellent area for passing Sunday drivers, as it’s devoid of any structures or woods that could hide highway patrolmen. We’re talking one of only 2-3 spots along the whole route that a person could stretch that 55 MPH speed limit and feel comfortable doing so.
Just as I was winding the truck up to about 64, I noticed a slight brown blur careening across the barren field to my right, heading toward me in an almost perpendicular fashion. It was a rather large rabbit, and it was coming closer and closer, with small whisks of dust unsettling behind it with each encroaching foot.
Within seconds, a small roadside ditch was the only thing separating him from the roadway, and at this point, time began to move in relative slow motion. It was, for lack of a better term, the Matrix. This rabbit…we’ll call him “Neo,” was actually looking at me. Kid you not. And I was looking at him. We locked eyes at a speed of 60+ miles per hour, but found ourselves in a “time-space continuum” that resembled a slow motion replay of a pending train wreck.
As he neared the ditch along the highway, Neo began his leap…obviously believing his adrenaline packed hind legs would send him across and past the bumper of my speeding truck with more than a hare to spare (sorry, had to use it). He pushed off with flawless execution and became airborne, his furry little face bearing a look of determination, a look of confidence, and look of self reliance. It was as if his pursed little lips were silently mouthing “I GOT THIS” as he began his flight through my lane…and to be perfectly honest, he probably did have it…with maybe a foot to spare. The little guy was gonna make it…
until…
…a second blur appeared…seemingly out of nowhere. It swooped in from the sky like a kamikaze war plane. As a shadow darkened my windshield and the blur came into focus, the cause of Neo’s post-dawn scurry and subsequent flight came into view.
A beautiful behemoth of a hawk (or “Agent Smith” for those of you that want to stick with this whole silly Matrix theme), seeking an early morning breakfast. His flight was majestic, with an “eyes on the prize” attitude that was not to be denied. In that split second as Agent Smith’s talons dug into his airborne prey, a smile stretched across his beak. A smirk of satisfaction, if you will, as his head tilted in my direction. It was as if he was saying “You like that, don’t you old man?” His snag game was certainly on point, but he failed to take into consideration other, shall we say, “mitigating factors,” like a 4-wheel drive Toyota pickup barreling at him at 60 MPH. Best I can figure, there were about 1.3 nanoseconds between his smug stare, my left headlight and their fleeting mortality. Believe it or not, a lot of things happened in that 1.3 nanoseconds.
At .002 nanoseconds, Agent Smith’s sly smile and Neo’s look of “can-do-it-ness” both turned into a combined look of morbid horror as they simultaneously mouthed a couple of words not fit for print here. It doesn’t really matter what the words were…but I’d imagine you or I would have said the same had our roles been reversed.
At .94 nanoseconds, I let loose a scream reminiscent of a 3-year-old girl watching the Easter bunny get bludgeoned to death on her front lawn. And I peed on myself. Just a little, but enough that it bears pointing out. I’m learning that at 44, I’m fairly incontinent when it comes to tragedy, loud noises, and laughter. 
At 1.3 nanoseconds, my front bumper slammed headlong into both of them, sending the Matrix spiraling out of control, and feathers and fur into every nook and cranny of an otherwise spotless vehicle. It came through the windows. It came through the air vents. It stuck under the wiper blades. It. Was. Everywhere. It’s been over a year, and I just found Agent Smith’s sunglasses lodged into my radiator coil. (Ok, so it was a beak…but I’m really trying to make this Matrix thing stick).
Obviously, there would be no sequel to this Matrix, but Mother Nature taught me something very important that day…
…always use the bathroom before you leave the house.
~dan
Seems that in the late 1700’s, folks in New England would store their pork shoulders in barrels they called “butts,” giving way to the name “Boston Butt.” Since the Southerner in me refuses to cast accolades upon a Massachusetts town when it comes describing this “south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line” staple, I’m gonna stick with “pork butt” for this story…consider yourself educated.
According to the cover, Sarah Michelle Gellar is apparently preggo with a real-life vampire’s love child. If you don’t see the irony in that, I can’t help you. I reached for my own copy (cause, hello, Sarah Michelle Gellar), and I see this lady’s son, a scruffy, mullet-head 8-year-old boy, standing at the end of my cart shotgunning a 20-ounce Mountain Dew like a Natty Light on race day. After placing the bottle BACK IN THE COOLER, he began rifling through candy bars like a crack head searching for spare change.
He chuckled, and we connected…I spoke his language.
I asked if he played any sports…he said no. I asked if he liked school…he said no. I asked if he liked BBQ…he said no. I asked if he knew any words besides “no”…and he said, “yep, nope.” 
his mom finished her purchase. She beckoned him to her side and admonished him for the handful of Almond Joys…”You don’t even like Almond Joys, boy!” (Something tells me if they were Twizzlers, she wouldn’t have said a word.) 
Just as I was putting away my wallet and reflecting upon my new outlook on life, I was suddenly hit with a pain in my right kidney that literally dropped me to my knees. I feigned a scream that only came out as a whimper. My pork butt rolled across the sidewalk as I struggled to stand, unable to catch my breath. The smell of Mother Earth Dark Cloud wafted from the broken bottles as they shattered on the concrete.
(I found this helped to weed out the spoiled lasses who were only looking for a life of leisure and soliloquy at my expense….thus saving them years of disappointment down the road.)
One who has never been subjected to the shear cleaning power afforded by a 120-grit sheet of John Wayne industrial grade single-ply balled up like a Danny Duzit scouring pad? Hey, I know I out-kicked my coverage, but I had no idea I married into some sort of toilet paper royalty who reigned from the golden thrones (get it?) of Biltmore Estate. I can only assume that she married me out of pity. It happens. Women love a project…especially one that that never gets finished (and I’m forever in the bathroom). Today’s revelation only confirms what I’ve long suspected: She has an ill-conceived notion
that one day, this poor, overweight, balding, noxious frog will become a prince. Obviously, I haven’t…and likely never will. So, ribbit.
Except snoring. Whole lot of snoring. But no dreams. Weird, huh?
To my left, miles of unspoiled pristine beach in it’s natural habitat. To my right, a massive family of pasty-white Yankees feeding a 5 pound bag of Cheetos to an ever-growing flock of seagulls from beneath an EZ-Up tent whilst they poop upon the hood of my truck (the seagulls, not the Yankees). Just a typical day on the North Carolina coast. Then it happened…
The puzzled looks of the hairy-backed, orange-fingered visitors from the great white north told me that this was certainly not in my head. This was really happening. Something bad. The wind had all but stopped and the sun was beginning to glow a deep reddish orange…pimento cheese orange. And then, once again… KABOOOOOOOOM.
The Yankees had long ditched the safety of their EZ-Up fortress and were sprinting to their Vanabego as quickly as their Crocs and knee-high black socks would take them. My truck was literally bouncing in the sand. Pimento cheese was everywhere. The dulcet tones of Steve Winwood crooned through the speakers…
sand dunes shifting to flat plains, and boats saying their final goodbyes as they succumbed to the the 50 foot swells enveloping the beach with each passing concussion. Prudence demanded that I dig around the floorboard in search of that final piece of pork belly, as assuredly, this would be my last meal…
: I completely lost all composure at this point and inadvertently uttered a pitifully disguised laugh that resembled a loud obnoxious ‘verp.’ Credit to ‘Amanda’ … not her real name … she deadpanned like Rita Rudner reincarnated.)
(that’s police radio code for “public disturbance.” Don’t ask me how I know this. It’s not relevant to the situation at hand).
head…calmly, quietly, invitingly. Soon the cashier began nodding…then the others in line softly muttered and began to nod, smiling in agreement. It was a beautiful thing. People coming together for the common good.
ng her way toward me. I had noticed her in line earlier, complaining loudly about the lack of meatballs on her 12 inch sub. The only thing restaurant employees hate more than people on diets are people that SHOULD be on diets, especially those complaining about the dearth of food on their plate. Seems she had only received 8 measly meatballs…in her mind a pauper’s portion, given the size of the bun. And had she sweetly requested another meatball to offset that vacant bun space, I’m sure they would have happily obliged.
Charlie. The young woman behind the counter squirted that Miracle Whip like she was wringing someone’s neck and staring the old lady down with every creamy line. “Hit it again!” she bellowed. Must have been half a bottle of mayo on that sammich. What the old lady lost in extra meatballs, she made up for in mayo. Ha. That’ll teach’em.
faded Wrangler jeans, a cheap plaid shirt, a starched white cowboy hat, and a giant belt buckle, the likes of which I had only seen on the Nature Boy Ric Flair. His ornery attitude was equaled only by the wheezing beast he was attempting to mount.
eventually won the thing after 3 successful rides. I understand he took home $350 for the trouble. We watched from the parking lot as he flicked his cigarette at a group of kids hoping for an autograph, then climbed into a ratty old Ford F100. He sprayed dust and rocks against the other cars as he drove off nursing a Budweiser tall boy concealed in a brown paper bag.
system. Jason Derulo…at a rodeo? Um, ok. I get it…I’m in marketing. Appeal to a younger, more diverse crowd. Of course, I think the diversity discussion should probably begin with getting Pepsi & Coke in the same restaurant, but if you wanna start it with Jason Derulo at a rodeo, then Ok. Weird, but Ok.
people, I notice he’s wearing what appears to be…yes, it is… a bullet-proof, Kevlar vest. And Kevlar gloves. And Kevlar pants. And Kevlar arm pads. And a Kevlar helmet covered in energy drink stickers and a full metal cage across the front. As I’m wondering aloud how he’s gonna spit a wad of chaw through that wire mesh or reach through for a tug of his Marlboro I see the huge “NO TOBACCO PRODUCTS ALLOWED” sign plastered behind him. What in the wide world of sports? No Red Man? No Levi Garrett? No (gulp) Marlboros? Bet they’re serving tofu at the concession stand with Stella Artois on tap. Travesty. Meanwhile, this little canuck guy is petting old Freckles like a long lost Labrador retriever and whispering sweet nothings into his ear before he finally stammers out, “Okie-dokey guys, let’s turn her loosey!”
back into the gate 2.3 seconds into the ride, but I lifted it just in time to hear him opine that maybe his “glove was loose.” His Kevlar glove. His PINK Kevlar glove. The very one still lashed into the rope that Freckles was dragging past a barrel painted like a friggin Stella Artois bottle (told you). By the end, this guy finished third, thanked no less than 47 sponsors and collected a check for $5,000. Clutching a diet Coke, he walked off the stage hugging everyone along the way and signing autographs for scantily clad super models (who are inexplicably on the front row of a rodeo).