So it's July and I'm taking some time off because it's what sloths DO and my call to have some bloggers guest post for me did not go unanswered!!
Here's my first guest post from The Sarcasm Goddess (okay, okay..wtf is up with you women and the 'sarcasm' shit?) from the blog, For the Love of Writing.
When she sent it to me, she also emailed me with this:
"Feel free to correct any typos. I have proofed it, but I've also had six different anxiety attacks during the process so I no longer know what I'm reading."
It’s known to most as The Great Blizzard of 2010, but to the residents of some backward-ass hick town in Tennessee it’s more commonly referred to as Two Idiots from Florida Go to Gatlinburg.
I shouldn’t say that about Tennessee. Their people are very nice and probably only a few are cannibals. And by a few, I mean all the f*cking people. But really, what else are they supposed to do with the all the dead bodies lining their we-don’t-have-enough- plows-and-gee-golly-would-you-look-at-all-this-snow covered roads?
I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the part where I’m a cocky little shit.
The husband and I decided to go to Gatlinburg for our winter vacation last year, because nothing says second honeymoon like 47 rounds of miniature golf and endless amounts of fudge.
My mother asked us if we’d checked the weather report and we were all, “Psht. Snow is stupid,” loaded up the truck and were on our way.
We rented a book on tape cuz what better to way to spend 187 hours in the car than listening to a woman whose voice makes you want to drive a rusty metal pipe in your ear canal. Honestly, listening to your Great Aunt Mildred talking about her latest hemorrhoid flare up was preferable to this woman.
“Can you see it, Johnny? Rub some ointment on it, would ya?”
The snow started falling just outside of Ashville and people were crashing into guardrails, plowing into mountains and in general, sliding all over the road. I was all “Bahahaha. What a bunch of morons. How hard is it to drive in snow?”
Cue night fall, a traffic jam, and the decision to get off the main road, and we were about to find out.
For the first thirty seconds, all went according to our very complex and detailed plan of Keep the Truck on the Road. We were driving like my sweet dearly departed grandparents. And by that I mean we were driving slow, not that one of us is practically blind and receiving instruction from the other one of us.
Uh huh, yep. That’s a true story. My grandparents picked me up from school every day when I was in the first grade. My grandmother couldn’t drive and my grandfather couldn’t see. Problem, right? Hells no! Grandpa drove and Grandma told him where to go. Duh.
“What out for that trashcan, Russ!”
That trashcan never stood a chance. To a six year old girl, it was hilarious. To a twenty-something adult, the thought is f*ckin terrifying. Growing up sucks.
Apparently it’s a big no-no to slam on the brakes when driving in snow and oh shit, look at that, we’re sliding backwards toward a giant-ass ditch. The mountains are fun!
We came to a stop all tilted and angley like in a crap ton of snow. Which is way less than a shit ton, but only slightly more than I-just-drank-six-cups-of-coffee-and-my-ass-is-going-to-explode ton.
People immediately stopped to help us.
Aww how sweet.
Yeah, no. I mean, seriously. Have you guys seen Hostel or one of the 27 Saws? I haven’t, but I’m pretty sure they go something like this, oh hey people trapped in snow, let me help you and then force you to cut your own limbs off and eat your kidneys.
Thanks, but I’m full.
We finally accepted help from some teenagers from Florida who offered to pull us out with chains.
People from Florida are going to rescue people buried in snow?
Bahahahahaha. You’re funny.
You know what else is funny? Sliding some more and then slamming into a tree, which is all the teens managed to accomplish.
They were all, “Sorry dude,” and then scampered off to begin working on being the next stars of 16 and Pregnant.
In case you’re wondering, we did call Triple A, but they were all, “oh you guys in the tundra? we rescued you, like, thirty minutes ago.”
Oh really Triple A? Then why they hell are we still balls deep in snow?
At that point we knew we were at the mercy of the cannibals.
A hearty band of meat-eaters showed up about two hours into our very own version of I Shouldn’t Be Alive and were all, “you guys still here? we can go get our tractur from ther bar and pull yer out.”
The husband thought this was a dandy idea and off went the cannibals while I was all, “the bar? the bar! the people who are going to rescue us are a bunch of drunk assholes who leave their tractor at the bar?!”
The husband: "Barnnn. They’re going to the barn."
I wasn’t convinced and spent the next fifteen minutes losing my shit, until…
A soft glow.
An orange ember.
Growing brighter. Coming closer.
Oh look, it’s a precariously perched cigarette on the lips of that man with a mullet and goatee, wearing flannel, dirty boots and carpenter’s gloves, walking down the middle of a mountain road in the dead of night during a blizzard.
How nice; he’s stopping outside my door. He’s staring at us. He’s telling us to roll down the window.
Me: "Uh, thanks, but, um, we’re waiting for a tractor."
Guy with mullet: "I am the tractor."
No need for a calculator on this one, folks!
You helplessly buried in snow + crazy flannel-wearing mountain guy = you’re about to be eaten.
The husband and I were debating whether it was even worth putting up a fight, when suddenly there were lights! From a tractor!
Oh happy day. I insisted the husband and I wait outside the truck and stand in the middle of the road, prepared to bolt in the opposite direction the truck was sure to slide when it broke free from the chains.
“What she doin’? She standin in the middle of the road? What the hell for?”
“Bitch is crazy.”
After only two tries they got the truck free. The husband and I offered to shower them with money or at least buy them some new flannel, but mullet guy was all, “no no. this is what we do. we sit up in our trailur an watch fer people to git stuck in the snow an then rescue em. oh, and I don’t blame ya fer not rollin down yur window. kinda scary havin a man walk up to yer truck, but don’t worry, we left our banjos at home.”
They left. Their banjos. At home.
Hahahahaha! Cannibal jokes are funny. No really, they are. Now, which way back to
Shit like this is why I try to stay up North.
Virginia is still considered 'north,' right? Cuz that's where I am right now on vacation.
Pray for me.
That post was amazing. Thanks to Sarcasm Goddess for surviving her anxiety attacks long enough to bless us with this post. Go check her out at "For the Love of Writing" and tell her Moooooog sent you.
I get a coupon for a banjo.