My World of Parkinsonian Delights

Who is Billy Big Rig? And How Did He Save America?

For obvious reasons, his real name cannot be revealed.  You’ll understand when you read the improbable and hilarious adventures of “Billy Big Rig” in “Undercover Trucker: How I Saved America by Truckin’ Towels for the Taliban.”

Read about his fall from grace in the world of truck driving:

For this part of the story I need to rely on the police reports because frankly the last thing I can clearly recall was climbing back into the truck.  From what the reports say, I flipped the truck over on its side trying to make the turn from the highway to the chemical company.  It’s true what they say about God looking out for drunks and idiots, because if I had flipped that truck over coming OUT of that plant with the stuff I was going to load up on, instead of going in empty like I was, the chemical would have created what the newspapers called “a kill zone with a fifty-mile radius” where nothing would grow for at least thirty years.  So, if there’s anything good to come out of this story (besides my being in a position to save America later on), it was that.

The cops finally found me, naked, shivering and blind in a concrete culvert near Butler, Pennsylvania.  That’s nearly fifteen miles away.  I have no idea how I got there.  My sight returned (much to the surprise of the prison doctor) some time later, and being able to see the people I met in the gray bar hotel was clearly instrumental in what happened next.

Read how he was asked by prison officials — and a very prominent American — to infiltrate an Al Qaeda sleeper cell in the prison:

“If I can’t talk you into it, maybe someone else can,” the warden said.  He walked to one of the walls and pushed a button.  A door slid open in the same way that doors slide open on “Star Trek” and into the room stepped Bill Clinton, President of the United States of America.  Evil incarnate!  It made my skin crawl to gaze upon him.

Clinton walked to the center of the room.  He handed a cigar to the warden, then to each of the Freightliner guards.  They all lit up, filling the room with delicious smoke.  Clinton sat down in a chair facing mine — a safe, non-kicking distance away.
“How ‘bout you, Billy?  Want a see-gar?” Clinton asked.

“Take that see-gar and stick it somewhere,” I told him.  I laughed at the politically satirical nature of my retort, having read the Ken Starr that said where it was Clinton actually did enjoy sticking them things from time to time although it did seem like a sad waste of tobacco to me.

(Actually, out of all the things that asshole Clinton did while he was president, that probably made me madder than anything.  Of course a man’s gonna chase after the little fat girls from time to time.  A man ain’t a man unless he’s chasin’ down some freelance tail.  It’s all a matter of what you DO with it when you CATCH it.  And Bill Clinton weren’t no gentleman.  Now, I don’t blame him for lying!  Hell, that’s what men DO when they’s caught dippin’ the wick where they oughta not be dippin’ it.  I don’t even blame him for lying to the court about it.  It’s their job to prove you did it, not yours to prove it for ‘em.  And the merciful God in Heaven above knows I put MY hand on a Bible or two (actually, 17) in my time and swore I didn’t do what God and me BOTH know I did.  So it ain’t that!  And neither do I really blame him for messin’ up the little fat girl’s purty blue dress for her, though the least thing a gentleman shoulda done was at least NOTICE he landed a shot on the cloth and offer her a tissue or sumthin’.  No, the thing that gets me madder than a wet skunk is the way he wasted a perfectly good cigar by puttin’ it – up THERE!  And this weren’t probably no Swisher Sweet or Rum Soaked Crook or any other cheap cigar made from the floor-sweepin’ leftovers from when they makes cigarettes with all the wood chips and rat poop and toenails what goes into them cheap stogies that you can git over the counter at the truck stop for $4 per box.  You just GOTTA know that the President of the United States is gonna be chewin’ on some FINE cigars.  Maybe even CUBAN, although they’s illegal.  So the thought of this red-cheeked, soft-handed, bulby-nosed asshole treatin’ a $35 cigar like a 75-cent tampon made me right sore.  Still does.)

“I like your spirit,” he said with that little chuckle that made real Americans want to strangle him.  “You from Arkansas by any chance?”

I told him I was from Iowa and that the one by-God reasons that Iowans tolerate the state of Missouri was that it kept Iowa from having to bump borders with his God-forsaken hell hole of a state.

Clinton looked back over his shoulder at the warden.  “This here’s shithead’s a sassy one, ain’t he?”

“Want me to have Bingo and Chuck knock some of the sass out of him?” the warden asked and that’s how I learned the names of the two Freightliner guards.

“Naw, I don’t think that will be necessary once our friend here understands just what it is America needs for him to do,” Clinton said, and then he put his elbows on his knees and leaned toward me and for just an instant I thought I might be able to kick the cigar out of his yap.  I tried, but he jerked his head back just out of reach of my pointy yellow toenails.

“I don’t gotta understand one single goddam thing,” I sneered.  “I happen to know fer a fact that you is a ‘lame duck’ and that last month America finally wised up and voted you out of office and that in just a little bit more than a month there will once again be an honorable man in the White House when George W. Bush Jr. takes that there oath of office and becomes the rightful President of these United States that I loves so much and that you have beslimed with yer filth.  So whatever yer selling, Bubba, I sure as hell ain’t buying.”

“Oh, I think you’ll buy it once you hear what it is, Billy.  Tell me.  How much do you love America?”

Well, I told him how much I love America.  I love it from sea to shining sea!  I love its purple mountains’ majesty and its amber waves of grain.  I love it from California to the New York island, because THIS land was made for you and me!  THAT’s how much Billy Big Rig loves America.

“Then you don’t wanna see it destroyed,” Clinton said with a serious look on his face.

“That’s why in 1992 I voted for George Herbert Walker Bush,” I said.  “And that’s why in 1996 I voted for that great American Bob Dole, and that’s why last month I woulda voted for that brave warrior George W. Bush Jr. if convicted felons was allowed to vote, you draft-dodging, pot-non-inhaling, barbeque-eating, lesbian-marrying, ugly-daughter-fathering, cat-owning, poor excuse for a yellow-livered Democrat,” I snarled.

Bingo and Chuck started toward me with mayhem in their eyes but they was halted by an upraised presidential hand.
“That’s just the kind of attitude that might keep you alive – in Afghanistan,” Clinton said with that goofy-ass smile on his face that always made me want to punch the TV.

“Why in the hell would I be going to Afghanistan?” I asked.

He told me.

And along the way, Billy teaches you proper public bathroom etiquette:

Of utmost importance is the ability to ignore the sounds generated by other users of the public facilities as well as their accompanying odors.  Public rest rooms is, by their nature, loud and stinky places.  (This is especially true in Texas, home of the enchilada pie.)  You needs to keep in mind that this is ain’t the time nor the place to be a critic!  There are certain sentiments you would not wish to utter upon hearing the butt trumpeting of a fellow rest room user.  For instance:
— Yow!  Gabriel’s Trumpet!  The Good Lord’s calling us home!
— I’ll bet YOU feel better now!
— Do you want fries with that?
— That’s the buzzer!  It’s half-time and the Knicks lead the Celtics 68-57!
— Lord, fella… Whatever it was you ate, don’t eat it again!
And there is sentiments you would not wish to utter when you makes the porcelain ring with yer own hardcore poop blasts:
— Funny.  I don’t remember eating that!
— Yikes!  I wish I had eaten something that smelled this good!
— Yes SIR, Mr. President!
— Mommy!  Come wipe me now!
— Hey!  Corn!
Utterances like those described above is not only silly, but they could lead to a physical altercation with that dangerous looking dude you saw hunkered down in the corner when you first came in.

What NOT to say to a cop when he pulls you over for speeding:

Don’t Be a Jerk to the Cops!

When the cops pull you over – and the cops WILL pull you over – get off yer high horse and knock off the attitude.
I learned this early on in my career, including one incident I’ll talk about later that ended up with me getting married.  But please understand that because yer a truck driver, the cop is already expectin’you to be an asshole.  Do not prove him correct!

Now, from personal experience, here is a list of things you should never, ever, NEVER say to a cop when he walks up to the side of yer truck after he pulls you over:

* * * *
Do I know how fast I was going?  Yer the idiot with the radar gun, stupid!  You tell ME how fast I was going!

Does yer mama know yer a cop?  She didn’t say nothing to me about it when I had her ankles up by her ears back there at the truck stop.

Oh, good!  A moron in a cop hat!

Shit!  Now I’m gonna have to break that promise I made to my probation supervisor about not beating up cops no more!

Listen, officer, before you start asking questions – what’s yer blood type and have you been tested for AIDS?

No, I ain’t staring at you officer.  I’m just trying to figger out how much of yer corpse I’m gonna be able to fit in my cooler.

Would you mind telling me yer name, officer?  Next time I’m in Washington, DC, I wanna check and see if it’s on the Police Memorial yet.

Yeah, you can see my license and registration… just so long as you can get to yer gun before I get to mine!

Whatsamatter, officer?  Didn’t I get yer wife home by curfew last night?

Oh, and when you DO talk to yer wife, make sure and tell her the little bumps she noticed on my crotch was “crabs” and not “herpes.

And then, see for yourself even AFTER he saved America how the Government still wants him dead.

“That’s fine, Billy!  That’s fine,” President Bush Jr. said.  “Now, I’m gonna have a couple agents drive you down to Bethesda.  From there you’re on your own to start your new life.  I’d ride along but I’m pretty busy being a war president and all.  It’s hard work.”

I told him I understood and I went to shake his hand.  He pulled back.  “Sorry, Billy, but you kinda squeezed my hand a little too hard when we met.  Hurts some.”

I told him I was sorry, that sometimes I was just a little bit too manly for my own good but that I was sure he understood how that was being a manly man his own self and that I hoped to meet him again sometime.

“You never know, Billy,” he said.  “You never know.”  Then he turned to one of the Secret Service guys.

“Make sure, OK?” he said.  The Secret Service guy nodded.

Well, they showed me back out to the presidential limo and we all got in.  The two guards faced me in the jump seat and we rolled out of the presidential compound.  I just watched the scenery roll by.  After a few minutes the driver spoke up.

“This far enough?” he asked one of the guards.

“This should do,” the guard answered.

“OK,” the driver said.  Then his voice changed some.  “Oh no!” he said.  “The ‘Check Engine Soon’ light just came on.  I’d better pull over and check the engine!”

“Yes.  Check the engine,” one of the guards said.

“Good idea.  Pull over and check the engine,” the other one said.

“Check it soon,” the first one said.

“That is what I will do then and I am currently pulling over to check the engine,” the driver said.

“Want me to take a look at ‘er for ya?” I asked.  “I used to drive a truck and know a thing or two…”

“No,” one of the guards said, a little too abruptly I thought.

“Classified,” the driver said.

“Secret engine,” the other guard said.  “Our eyes only.”  I figgered that made sense, this being a presidential limo and all.  Wouldn’t want the evil-doers having information about how presidential limos operate.  Who knows what they could do with knowledge like that?

The car rolled to a stop.  I looked around.  It was a beautiful area.  Lots of trees.  No signs of civilization for miles and miles.

“Tell you what,” the first guard said with a smile.  “Why don’t you hop out and stretch your legs a bit while we check it out?”

I said I thought that was a pretty good idea as the lemonade I drank back there at Camp David was already putting a hurt on my bladder.

I got out of the car and stretched then headed into the woods a bit.  It was quiet, peaceful and very deserted so I didn’t worry about nobody seeing me when I walked over to a tree, pulled down my zipper, produced “Little Billy” (although the nickname is clearly just a nickname as dozens of women who know better would swear to…) and proceeded to wet down the side of a tree.

That’s when I heard the first gunshot.

You’ll learn about his many marriages, his thoughts about modern day truckstops and his politically incorrect philosophy of life when you read “Undercover Trucker: How I Saved America by Truckin’ Towels for the Taliban.”

AVAILABLE AT BOOKS O’BILLY — ALSO AT: — 304-page paperback, $30 — PDF Download, $5 — 304-page paperback, $25 — KINDLE Version, $5 — in ALL Downloadable eBook Formats — $5

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