The six mile piss

Can't really remember the first time I met Kipling.

I think it was the night he ran his Chevy ll SS into a tree outside my parent's place out on the 86 dragway... or just about a half mile south of the 86 dragway to be precise.

I was the second person to come upon the accident scene, whereupon the first person informed me that the guy driving the Chevy ll was bleeding all over the interior of his new Deville.

So young Kipling plows his car into a tree at 100 mph, and a life-long friendship started.

A year later we both turned up at Budd Automotive, which was at that time the primary employer of niggers of all skin tones, including white, in the entire region.

That's where we really bonded.

I'd pull hilarious pranks like "borrowing" his 340 Duster from Budd's parking lot while he was on the night shift. The cops would be looking for that lime green Duster for months, and he got pulled over relentlessly.

But I always made up for it by returning that car to the Budd parking lot before the end of his shift with a case of beer under the hood. I'd unplug the distributor to make sure he had to open the hood to find that case of beer!

Oh, those were fun times!

There were a lot of real characters at the Budd plant back in the day. The Jamaicans, and there were tons of them, always had a line to really good weed.

That pretty much made them our best buddies.

There was a Polish guy who always showed up in a three piece suit. He didn't want his neighbours to know he worked in a factory. He'd change into work clothes when he got to work. Drove a 'Cuda.

Then there was Frenchie, who rolled his Javelin into the ditch with five brothers inside while trying to make it to the beer store before closing time.

Lotsa characters and lotsa fun! Who has jobs like that anymore?

Anyway, Kipling's dear daddy had a scrapyard in nearby Guelph, and holy shit, was he ever a character!

He was Fred to Kipling's Lamont... through that scrapyard Kipling got to know all sorts of interesting characters.

Like bikers.

This one guy in particular was to leave a lasting impression on me. Married to a native woman, and living on a reservation, he had a finger in pretty much any pie in the local economy, whether that pie was legal or illegal or in that grey zone between.

Used to be a big cheese in the Satan's Choice before they morphed into a Hells Angels franchise in the great patch-over.

So one day me and Kipling are sitting in the diner at the Woodstock Truckstop, and this guy happens along, and before you can say "no thanks, maybe some other time..." we're in Buddy's Peterbilt heading west at 70 mph, jug of Jack Daniels and a hash pipe going round on a too regular basis for my tastes.

An hour later we're on the 403 heading Sarnia way. I'm fucked, and I really really really have to have a piss.

Dude, can ya pull over so I can have a piss?

Buddy looks at me like I'm the most retarded retard he's ever seen in his life.

Ten minutes later; Dude, can you pull over so I can have a piss?

By now I'm practically exploding and having major bladder leakage...

Dude and Kipling are busting out laughing... nobody's going to pull an 18 wheeler over so some dumbfuck passenger can take a piss...

So I did what I had to do. Opened the passenger door, stood on the side-tank, pulled out my wang, and had a six mile long piss along the 403 at seventy miles an hour.

Best piss I ever had.