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The following is a true and sometimes not-so-true account of the sordid collection of happenstance which surrounded the 6th-annual California Desert Trek, which took place in January 2003. The passages in normal font are related by Nathan Price, aka Nate Dogg, aka Nate D O double G, aka Candy’s Boy. The passages in italics are mine. Some of the names have been changed to protect the lame, flaccid, and/or lupus-stricken. As always, thanks for reading, and enjoy.
--Pat Burroughs, February 2003.
My trip to California kicked off in true Nathan style…I was somewhere around two hours late. Luckily Pat and Cindy managed to load up the
trailer without the help of the Nate D O double G. I don’t think Pat minded
much but kept harassing me about it throughout the course of the trip. Under the command of Pat, we were not to leave until after the Sooners game, or at least until they had it locked up. Pat insisted on waiting until they had like a twenty something point lead with only minutes to go in the last half until we began our trek. And began we did…
Heh heh. Command. Interesting choice of words. Anyway, I’m thinking it was no “accident” that Mr. Dogg was late. Lazy rat bastard just didn’t want to help load the truck and trailer. What he didn’t know was that –once it became apparent he would be tardy— I had removed his seat cover and completely “soiled” his seat foam. Eventually his scooter britches would be laden with a distinct ammonia odor.
And of course the specter of the mighty (and beloved) Sooners thrashing yet another hapless foe trumps all. Of course we couldn’t leave until life’s 2nd-greatest pleasure had been experienced. Life’s greatest pleasure, you ask? Read on.
The first portion of our trip’s main purpose was to get out of town and down the road a bit, Midland, TX was the destination. After hours of driving through absolutely nothing, towns like Clyde and Big Spring got me all excited inside. I could tell the drive was going to be a long one. We finally made Midland, our stopping point for the night, where we stopped to fuel, eat and sleep. We found a station that was on the right side of the road. I mean that in two senses…the directional sense and the conditional sense. You see Pat wouldn’t stop at a station on the left hand side of the road, it just wasn’t right to him. He explained how it wasted time and wasting time wasn’t accounted for in our nearly two week long journey into the depths of Motorcycle Heaven. So anyways, we found a station on the right side of the road and started pumping fuel…very very slowly, about three-quarters of a gallon a minute. This was going to zap some time, we had to think quick. Thankfully there was a Whataburger next door to the station, we decided to go grab some food in hopes that the tank might be full when we returned.
He’s not kidding when he says “excited inside”. After Mr. Dogg regaled me with tales of his . . . eh, significant manhood (why he’d think I’d be interested in the dimensions of his manly apparatus is beyond me) . . . we had to stop so he could clean up and change his britches.
As Mr. Price would soon find out, we had a significant amount of tedious driving ahead of us and, as any seasoned long-haul traveler knows (duh!), stopping at a gas station on the left side of the interstate only serves to prolong the misery. This would be the first of many things the youngster was to learn on this journey.
While waiting for our food to be prepared in walked five or six young, good looking females. Nate Dogg attacked the dames with his boyish good looks and uncanny charm. The fem’s took the bait and rode with us to the hotel room for a night of squalidly lewd love triangles. I wish, what really happened is I hit on them to no avail. Turns out one of them was
getting hitched or something, must have been pregnant. Meanwhile back at the station, the pump must have progressed into turbo mode because diesel was spewing out of the fill neck onto the ground. Mr. Pat Burroughs, with Whataburger in hand, had the most peculiar look on his face when he noticed what was happening. It was the same look you get when you realize Santa is really just some pervert who dresses up at Christmas and hangs out at the mall. I quickly ran over and stopped the pump while Pat shouted and whispered obscenities. The motel of choice was just down the road as well so we drove over and received the trucker’s discount for our room and called it a night.
Santa’s a pervert who dresses up at Christmas and hangs out at the mall!?!?!? Thanks, thanks a lot! Killjoy.
Let me tell you, the boyish good looks and uncanny charm was something to behold. A true master at work. Let’s just say it’s no longer a mystery to me why Candy’s Boy is closing in on Wilt Chamberlain’s trim record.
