Anyway, Wilbur, besides owning a 2010 red Accent, also owns a large, dark red pick-up truck. He uses it to plough his neighbours’ roads in the Cape Breton snow belt, truck fire-wood to folks and occasionally haul his sometimes sorry ass to this place and that. Once in a while, he even likes to sit in his truck, listen to the radio and occasionally rev up the engine. He loves his hemi.
How hot was it?
It was so hot that the cold beer became warm beer practically before it hit their lips. So, there were Wilbur and his significant others imbibing at high speed to beat the heat. Even Bradley was turbo-licking the beer out of a black, cast iron frying pan.
There was no air conditioner, so it got very stuffy, even with the tiny fan blowing to beat the band, bless its little fanny.
Wilbur was majorly sweating and it was supposed to continue to be hot for another few days. When he looked out the window, he could see the heat rising off the hood of his dark red truck. Wave after wave of hot air floating up, up and away.
And speaking of hot air, Wilbur let the laughter and much of the conversation zing over his head, out the patio door and up to the top of some mountain. Wilbur wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
“You want to go fishing with us?” Wilbur’s cousin asked.
Wilbur didn’t want to go fishing, because he can’t deal with wire or string or rope. It tangles up on him and drives him just a short distance from stir-crazy.
However, Tyrol was keen to go fishing and was one of the first ones in the motor boat.
“If you’re not going, would you mind looking after little Timmy then?” Wilbur’s cousin asked. “He gets boat-sick and we spend more time cleaning up his %^&$%^& puke than we do fishing.”
Wilbur said he wouldn’t mind, so very soon Wilbur, wee Timmy and Bradley were listening to the sound of the motor boat pushing its way through the heat.
They’d only been gone about five minutes, when Wilbur realized he had to use the little boys’ room because of all the beer he’d downloaded. However, little Timmy who’d been downloading his share of hot dogs and pop, had already bee-lined his way to the one small washroom, and the way he’d comported himself to the tiny water closet, it looked like he was possibly in for a number one and number two combo. So Wilbur, whose kidneys were becoming more then a little insistent, went outside. Once there, he walked to the back of his steaming hot truck, unzipped and began to merrily stress the innocent grass.
Suddenly, he heard one heck of a scary boom. An explosion, which sounded like a stick or two of dynamite had blown up practically inside his head. Why, the ground even shook and Wilbur later told Maritime Mac that he had, for a brief instant, seen the big, fat, white light.
And then, who should come running out of the trailer, but wee Timmy! He burst through the trailer door, his pants falling down around his knees, trailing a stream of toilet paper and looking like a scared white-tailed deer. And my gosh, but he was cursing like a scared trooper.
“What the F$%^&* $^&$ $)(*% was that?”
Wilbur was still in shock and had no answer.
And we can’t forget poor Bradley. He’d been in mid-dump himself when the explosion occurred.
What happened after that, you may ask? Well, to put it bluntly, Wilbur wet himself. The little fella messed himself and Bradley got backed up until a week next Sunday. And when the folks came home with their load of rainbow trout, did wee Timmy ever have a colourful story for them!