I…have a bit of a problem. As problems go it’s not a severe one, but it’s still rather bad. I have an all-consuming lust for Dr. Pepper.
This normally doesn’t cause any major issues…except when it does.
A few weeks ago my family decided to take the new car on a joyride through most of the small towns near my house.
There’s nothing wrong with that, except for two minor details: I didn’t realize it was going to be so long of a drive…and I was guzzling a very LARGE bottle of Dr. Pepper. My bladder was most displeased.
My dad was driving. I’m beginning to think he did this on purpose, in revenge for the previous incident involving cars and bursting bladders.
But I digress. As the drive continued, with my father driving leisurely down country lanes pointing out homes of people he knew, I began to tap my fingers on my knee. After a few more minutes, my legs began to twitch. Fifteen minutes later, I was soaked in sweat, swaying back and forth in the back seat in between my mom and sister. “Are you okay, Zach?” my mom asked. “You look really…bad.”
“NoOOooOOOOoooooO!” I wailed piteously.
I swear at this point the man took his foot off the gas and deliberately slowed down. It took YEARS to arrive at my Uncle Kevin’s. By then I was in so much pain I was worried I was giving birth.
My uncle was not home.
“You’re not going to pee in his bushes!” my father snapped as I clawed my way across my sister to open the door. “We’ll just go to Grandma’s, she’s only another five minutes away!” He then leisurely rolled the car out of the driveway and continued his slow, meandering course back to Newton…and my Grandma’s bathroom. He was actually pushing sixty five, but I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that butterflies were passing my window.
I was rapidly losing the ability to speak in coherent sentences. Ninety five percent of my brain capacity was devoted to telling my bladder keep it in keep it in KEEPTHEPEEINFORGOODNESSSAKEPLEASEDON’TMAKEMEWETMYPANTS
Unbeknownst to me, however, there was now a truck with Idaho license plates pulling up behind my father. We passed some fields my Grandpa owned, and I lost all control.
The desperation in my voice finally moved my father to pity, and he slammed on the brakes to make the turn onto my Grandpa’s land. Then my mother spoke up.
So Dad, now listening to his murderous wife and ignoring his hysterical son, slammed the gas pedal to the floor. Within moments our new car had accelerated to eighty miles an hour.
The truck driver behind us had been planning to pass Dad. The poor driver had no idea Dad was being screamed at by two increasingly desperate people driven by increasingly full bladders. All he saw was this idiot, this brain-damaged old man deliberately slamming on his brakes and then hitting the gas. Why? The only possible reason, the truck driver decided, was because my Dad was trying to stop the driver from passing him, AND HE WAS GOING TO MAKE THIS FOOL PAY FOR HIS INSOLENCE!
The driver roared around us, despite the fact we already pushing eighty, despite the fact we were on a hill and passing was prohibited, giving my father a sign my family knows all too well.
By now my hands were reaching for Dad’s throat. Mom was threatening divorce if he did not get to Grandma’s RIGHT NOW. Our voices were high enough and shrill enough to burst eardrums. The Finger was just too much. My father timidly waved back, trying to defuse the situation.
That was the wrong thing to do. The driver slammed on his own brakes and Dad was forced to follow suit, sending my sister’s head into the seat in front of her.
We roared around him as he gesticulated wildly, and skidded into my Grandma’s house a few minutes later. My poor sister was already concussed from the smack into the other seat, and I did not help matters as I climbed over the top of her in my desperate attempt to make it to the toilet before my bladder ruptured.
Mom and I made it. Dad refuses to drive that car without carrying his gun. Grandma’s septic system nearly failed.
I’m never going on a drive with them again.