Story Time: THE DISCO DUCK (see Humble, TX)

Several years ago when I was the world’s greatest rodeo judge, I’d flown into Seattle and rented a car then drove over to Spokane to judge.  Since it was on my own dime and I’d applied for the rodeo months before, I was ticked off because a couple weeks out, I’d put a pencil to it and I was going to LOSE $200 judging the rodeo—just so I could see Beard’s bulls.  (I was later REALLY ticked off when I got there and found out that his good bulls went to Pendleton instead.   I’m not kidding; they bucked off something like one bull rider at Spokane.)  

On the way to Spokane, and driving with great determination, I get a ticket for doing triple figures on a double figure highway. 

Back on the road again... smoking... mad I mean.   I’m doing high doubles about 100 miles from Spokane and I see a cowboy hitchhiking and carrying a heavy rigging bag.   At least I think that’s what it was, he went by kind of fast.   So I think to myself, screw 'im… looks like a personal problem… probably some mental case.   But, after a few miles go by I start remembering my mom, and Boy Scout oaths, etc... I get feeling guilty, so I go back. Ten miles back.

So I pull up behind this dude, and he isn’t hitching; he’s more like STOMPING down the interstate.  I’m over on the side just trailing him and he doesn’t even turn around.  Just stompin' through Washington State. I gun the engine.  No response. Finally I hit the horn.  He just keeps on a stompin'.  So, for the second time I say screw it and start to pull around him. Might’ve got a little close. I clipped his elbow with the mirror.   He goes to the gravel, screaming and stuff.  I figure he must be a bareback rider—tender elbow.   Pull off to the side, back up… THUNK…. Ooops… he must’ve sat up.  At least it wasn’t KATHUMP KATHUMP.

So now I’m thinking… haul ass.   But then what if he gets my license plate number.  Hit and frickin’ run.  Trial… lawyer… prison… sexual abuse.   That’s no good.   Then I’m thinking… hurry and back over him (again) … dead witness… rental car…even if the FBI plasters of paris the tire tracks they probably won’t catch me.   And if they do catch me I’ll ask for the death penalty rather than years of the infamous bend over Deliverance hemorrhoid treatment.  

Crap… all of a sudden every person driving in Washington is on this highway and 99 ½ miles west of Spokane.   So I stop, get out, and go back.   He’s very still now—face down.   Taking precautions I pick up a stick and poke him.  I’d learned that lesson with a snake near Bandera one time.   Just wanted a hatband.   Anti venom does work but it’s still hard to get your riding boots on for a couple of weeks.  Looked like I had one clown foot. He kinda groans… still alive, but not violent anymore, so I figure I better load him up.   Maybe if I take him to the rodeo he won’t sue me.   If he croaks I can watch one of those real detective shows and learn how to dispose of the body.

He’s kinda of fat guy so I for sure can’t pick him up.  Now the problem is how to drag him.  I could sit him up and get around behind and lift up under his arms and kinda lift and drag him.  Nah, he might reverse head butt me.  Could drag him by a boot.  Nah, he might be playing possum and roll over and go to swinging. 

I’ve got to do something; people are starting to stop.  I wave them on by.  Nosey do gooders.  Not once in the 50 odd times I’ve ran out of gas or broke down has one person ever even slowed down except to improve their swerving to hit me accuracy.  

So I drag him by his head.   That’s not an easy thing to do; being a bareback rider he didn’t have much hair.  Did have a set of moose ears though—handles.   For most of the thirty feet I managed to keep his face out of the gravel. Well at least half the time. Well actually, maybe only a 1/3 of the time. I get this corpse to my car, run around to the front and pop the trunk.   Takes all I got to get his front end up over the edge.   He quit groaning the third time I dropped his head on the bumper. But like I said, he’s a little porky and he’s taller than most dwarf  BB guys and he won’t fit.  I’ve kinda got him folded up but his butt is up in the air and I can’t get the trunk closed.   So now the problem is: put him in the car, or try and get him out of the trunk... but he’s wedged in there tighter than an stressed out armadillo in a breadbox.  

I hike the 30 feet back and get his riggin bag and hat.   His hat looks like something you’d bury a dead guy in.  Open his bag… yep he’s a bare rider.  Got one of those suitcase handle deals that once you get you’re surgically prepared riding glove IN… it will never come out.  I get his boot tie down and tie the trunk closed; load up his stuff in the backseat and we’re off again.  

I figure they can’t start the bareback riding without me… even though they did at Estes Park one time.  Bareback riding through bull riding actually.

An hour later I’m on the off ramp to the fair grounds and in the rear view mirror I see the trunk lid pop open.   I’d been hearing some trashing going on for the last twenty minutes but rather than stop and have him be late… I turned up the radio. I figure… just keep rolling until we get to the rodeo grounds—I can see the gate.  

Dang… traffic…. have to stop….  In the one side mirror I have left I see that the stuffed Armadillo is becoming unstuffed.  

Hit door looks… windows up… radio full blast.   Ignore him.    Hard to, though, because now he’s on the hood.   

Hey… I know that guy.  HEY! ...that’s my old pal Arkansas Phil. The original DISCO DUCK.   Looks like he has an acne problem.   Oh… that’s embedded gravel.   Three big old knots on his forehead from the bumper bumps.  

I wave hey… he recognizes me…. “Hey… Phil… it’s me… Big Mac…. remember that time I pulled you at Okie City and you won first?

I can see that maybe he recognizes me too.   He’s trying to speak…. I can read lips…. “Wha…what… happened?”

YAHOO… I’m off the hook.   I pull off to the side.   Get out and dash to give aid to my pal.

“Easy buddy… I saw the whole thing… I didn’t know it was you until I went by and in my rear view mirror I seen that you kinda got to walking a little too far in the lane there and an 18 wheeler blew you over.   Man…. you took 19 somersaults.“

‘The  the … trunk….”

“Ah man I’m sorry about that but uh…. I had my three sick aunts with me… just dropped them at the nursing home here in town  When I asked you if you’d rather wait for another ride or have me call the Highway Patrol… you said… Hey just stuff me in that trunk…. You okay there, Arkansas Phil?”

“My ….ears.”

“I don’t care what guys say… I think they fit your face”.

“I’m up at the rodeo in Spurcun”.   He was kinda mumbling while he was hacking up gravel and jack rabbit parts.

“I figured you were, buddy.  We’re here right at the rodeo…. thirty minutes to spare.”

“I god thu best von”.   Maybe he just talks like that.   Kinda like a vampire with a Southern drawl.

“No problem-o, my friend, I know one of the judges.”

I let Phil stay in my room at the Super 8 there in Spokane.   Had two beds, of course.   Actually he didn’t look too attractive.  He asked me to spray some Bactine on his face while he was laying there bed ridden.  The 7-11 didn’t have any, but the vet at the rodeo had some of that blue spray stuff.   Arkansas Phil kinda looked like a smurf… a blue smurf with big red ears.

He turned out for a couple of days after his accident.   Kinda stiffened up the next day.   Just layed around the room and moaned and stuff.   I’d get up early before the trucker’s scarfed down all the continental donuts and get enough for Phil.  Unfortunately by the time he’d wake up they’d be gone.   Blamed it on the truckers.   Another reason for Arkansas Phil to hate truckers.

Had to take him to the mall… he wanted to look into hearing aids.  They didn’t have any that would fit.  Said something about an estimate.

Finally found out why he’d been stomping down the interstate.   He’d caught a ride from the Seattle airport with some contestants (the event of which I cannot recall)… and he had been sleeping (typical bareback rider) … kinda cramped up with four other guys in the backseat of an $11.95 per day unlimited mileage mini mini Pacific Rimmer… when the smoke woke him up.  Said it looked like the Yellowstone fires.   Didn’t even have the courtesy to roll down the windows.  Their choice of roll your own smoking leaves made Phil angry.   He got out.  

Now I know why he weaved out into the traffic lane.  

The End

Oh….

Phil won Spokane... In his dreams... The world’s greatest rodeo judge got him at the gate. That’s what makes a great judge.  Lack of sentimentality.

P.S.

Always speak up when you’re around Phil and don’t suggest eating at a truck stop.

Oh yeah… and don’t watch any Bullwinkle cartoons if he’s in the room… it makes him self conscious.

Bryan McDonald
© 2001 Probullstats.com (From the Humble, TX sheets)