It’s a road-game weekend and the desire to get tipsy—no, black-out-bartender-slappin’ drunk—in a different location is tempting. Friday rolls around and you forego your traditional marathon of Hot Pockets, Netflix, and dumping butt water into your toilet to pile into the car and prepare for an obligatory American foray into enemy territory. (Just like Normandy!) Twenty minutes in you’ve never been happier with your decision: you’ve got a near-full tank of gas, the car bar is operational and serving, and, despite everyone’s adulthood, it’s apparent that farts, especially when directed onto other people’s faces, are still hilarious.
At about the forty-minute mark the novelty of road tripping wears off. You’ve settled in, just sipping your beverage and enjoying the part of the country no one would ever visit or see if the freeway didn’t exist. It’s usually sometime around this point that someone’s inexperience becomes blatantly apparent. I don’t mean inexperience like describing sex as "just like wiggling your dong around in a warm, wet pile of laundry."
No, I mean it’s evident there's a guy who doesn’t know the basics of sharing a man-packed car. He’ll do something like take out his bag of smashed saltines and one of those nasty, gas-station-counter sausages that’s essentially an old room-temperature hot dog wrapped in cellophane. It’ll be a textbook faux pas and absolutely inexcusable. On top of that, the guy will claim he’s drank too many Fratty Lights and now needs to pee. He’s a unashamed, goddamn road trip rookie.
The situation will go from bad to worse. It’s not enough to not shut up about having to pee, but he’ll refute your suggested solution involving everyone not looking at him, his penis, and an empty liquor bottle several times. If that wasn’t enough, he’ll started to sweat while his pasty jowels churn and that hot, tubular meat is devoured and misted out of his pink mouth. It would be one thing if he’d take people’s advice, be considerate, and just stop being sweaty, smelly, and terrible, but he’s so opposed to it. Everyone will regret the decision they made to invite him. A group text between the other passengers will ensure.
The rookie won’t notice; he’ll be way too absorbed in a tirade about how awesome his Windows Phone is, or his apparently foolproof plan for Israel and Palestine's future. He won’t detect anything. Maybe it’ll be just because he’s a little drunk and sassy from the car bar or maybe this friend is actually the worst and you’ve never noticed before, but eighty minutes later you’re on your third bathroom stop that’s for only him.
With the rest of you crowded around the car, he’ll enter the lone gas station in Bumblepoo, Ohio. You know, it’ll be just one of those quaint, American towns. The type of place where feral dogs outnumber people, the town’s claim to fame is a giant wind chime, and the only thing resembling a sex trade is a weird teenager who rents out his erotic toys. While he’s in the bathroom, you’ll pull a collective Kenny Powers. Leave his backpack in the parking lot. Pinned to said backpack you’ll leave bus fare, because you don’t want to feel super bad, and a note that says,
“You’re never welcome in the car again.”
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible most Thursdays and some Tuesdays usually. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible.com archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.
[Abandoned road image via Shutterstock]