On a random spring morning, Cletus McFetus was battling early morning traffic. Dawn had awoke the masses as cars had poured onto highway 40 and were jockeying for lane dominance. Each with the intent to drift and sling-shot their way about like amateur stock car drivers. Cletus knew his route and his target mark: he made this trek numerous times. He would cross Poplar Street Bridge in the second lane from the left. As soon as the on-ramp merging into the fast lane appeared, he would glide over the two lanes to his left. Fixed in the left lane he would throttle his Fusion into gear and blink past seekers who sought to drift over. He was going to make great time this morning; everything was laying itself out perfectly. It was like the sea had parted for him. He smiled. Just then, a car a few thousand feet in front of him jerked their car into the next lane revealing a stranded motorist standing beside his car changing a tire in the far left-hand lane. There was nowhere to go. He could risk blindly changing lanes. But, McFetus was all too aware of the cars in his adjacent lane. It wouldn’t work. He braked hard. His tires barked. The back end of his car bucked. The stranded motorist danced next to his car while he strained not to leave a loaf in his pants. As the dust cleared, Cletus and the motorist were relieved to escape disaster. Cletus stared at the motorist, not blinking for several seconds, blew him a kiss, switched lanes and vanished from view. As the motorist gathered himself he turned to face his task.
There, leaning against this jacked up jalopy was a figure decked out in Under Armour gear. He had to pick the stuff that was super tight and clung to the spare tire that buoyed his upper body. Beneath the tire were was a base lacking the girth promised by the tire. That base was snugged into a pair of compression pants. The dadbod spoke, “Greetings, I am Mr. Stinkpot. And, you sir are in need of assistance.”
“Who the hell are you? Captain Under Armour?” The stranded motorist snorted as he moved back towards his rear flat tire.
“No, that guy’s a dick. I’m Mr. Stinkpot. Who are you?”
***crickets***
“All right, I’m going to call you Dave then. So, Dave, are you spreading peanut butter down there?”
Dave (presumably) looks over his shoulder incredulously, “what?!?”
“Well, it’ll go great with this traffic jam you created.” Mr. Stinkpot lets out a slight chuckle at this as he crouches down next to Dave and lets out a loud fart. The immediate vicinity is overcome with a noxious odor. Dave (presumably) stands up, buries his face in his elbow and takes two steps backwards into the wall.
“Dude. What the frick?!? What is wrong with you and what did you eat?”
“Hey man, we’re just hanging out. I figured we’re outside…”
“Why are you here?”
“You’re the dummy changing a tire in the left lane of an interstate in rush hour traffic. You’re going to kill yourself.”
“So, you’re trying to kill me first?”
“Nope, I’m going to hang out here with you though while you do it.”
“No, you’re not hanging out with me man. Get out your stank ass out of here. I have to go, please leave.”
Mr. Stinkpot turns, with his back to Dave (presumably), raises his left leg and props himself on the car. He stretches his back and arms and farts again. “No, I’m going to hang out here. You can leave though and change your tire at the bottom of the ramp.”
“I could bend my rim dude.”
“A bent rim is better than a dead Dave.”
“Fine, whatever, I’m gone.”
As Dave ( presumably) pulled away, he checked his mirrors. The annoying guy in the dadbod was gone as soon as he switched lanes. He immediately started to wonder what happened. Dave (presumably) will likely never know why Mr. Stinkpot raided his nostrils. Mr. Stinkpot does not seek adulation. He seeks out injustices and wrongs and uses the only tools he has: horrible dad jokes and puns; and, a colon filled with Qdoba and carbonated beverages brewing the most intolerable gases known to man. He shows up when the need arises to annoy his charges enough to leave. With his dadbod, he is saving the Metro East one dad joke and gas attack at a time.
Mr. Stinkpot needs to re-supply...
During a late afternoon drive home from work, Cletus McFetus struggled to stay awake. He had been on the road for a little more than an hour following a long day. His reactions started to slow as he pinballed between the lines in the right lane. He fought his body as it was starting to give and his energy waned. The blinks started to get longer and his eyelids felt very heavy. He just had to make one more mile, but it might as well have been 100. As a last ditch effort he cracked the windows and asked Siri to play My Own Worst Enemy. Yep, that was the ticket. He turned up the volume and began to belt over the radio, “Can we forget about the things I said when I was drunk, I didn’t mean to call you that…” Amid the caterwauling, his adrenaline began to pump and McFetus caught a second wind, he had this. Time to get home. He pushed the accelerator and passed the vehicle in front of him and quickly slid onto the exit ramp. As his wheels hit the exit ramp, something grabbed his attention and he thumbed the hand controls on his steering wheel to mute his radio. A woman was hanging out of a passenger window of a tiny cobalt blue car that was cruising in the left lane of I-64. She was a sight as she flailed her arms: think Sweet Dee if she mastered the inflatable arm-waving Tube guy. All throughout this display she was clearly shouting stuff to his favor. McFetus had to let her know she was seen. After all, this matters to these people. He slowed his car, rolled the window down completely, leaned out and blew the passenger a seemingly lovable (not-to-mention palpable) kiss.
~That was it. That ass hat cut him off - to pass a vehicle just to exit! Then he blew a kiss at my girl! The driver of the tiny car shoved his foot into the floor and gunned it across the overpass before braking hard. His lovable mistress nearly fumbled out of the vehicle as she slammed into the frame of the car before folding into the seat. He then pulled the hand brake and jerked his wheel to the left. He's lucky he didn't send his miniscule plastic heap into summersaults. Instead, his clown car performed the equivalent of a 900, 2-1/2 spins in the left lane, on the freeway. Un-phased he released the hand brake; the driver then tore through the grass median with his Chevy Cruze before bouncing onto pavement again. His wheels quickly found the westbound lanes as he perfected the suicide sweep crossing both lanes to hit the off ramp.
“Which way did the pissant go? Into New Baden or Mascoutah?” After a slight pause he pulls off the ramp. “Jesus Christ, do you want me to go after him or not.”
The mousy looking passenger had cowered against her door. The adrenaline of getting that idiot who blew kisses at her was overcome with fear as her partner swore at her. “I.. I don’t kn-kn-kn-know. You, you, you.. tore down that overpass so fast I couldn’t see which way he went!” Her voice rose as she regained her bearings and straightened up in her seat.
As she shot back, the engine cut off.
“What the hell?!?” The driver now enraged pushes open his door and stammers to his feet.
Just steps ahead of him was a figure decked out in Under Armour gear. He had to pick the stuff that was super tight and clung to the spare tire that buoyed his upper body. Beneath the tire there was a base lacking the girth promised by the tire. That base was snugged into a pair of compression pants. The athletic-wear-clad figure rounded the back of the Cruze and propped a foot onto the bumper. "Oh, guess what what sweet cheeks? We got Captain Under Armour here."
Exasperated, the dadbod sighs and mutters to himself, "again, with the.." He shakes it off, taking a power Captain pose on the car.
Then, the dadbod spoke, “Greetings, I am Mr. Stinkpot. And, you sir are in need of assistance.”
The driver whose blood was boiling by now barked back, “Um… you’re about to need assistance getting a size 9 out of your ass!”
“Size 9?!? Oh, my Lilliputian friend, you have small feet.”
“Feet that are going to find their way up your ass!” Stinkpot's friend slowly starts toward the back of the vehicle for a greeting.
Mr. Stinkpot laughs, “Oh, sweet little elf, your feet couldn’t even reach high enough.” Swirling the keys around his index finger, he pushed off of the car and stepped toward the short driver. “I’ve got to hand it to you though.”
The driver stopped his advance. Quite puzzled, he could only let out a huff, “huh?”
Mr. Stinkpot stopped twirling the keys and lowered them in his open-hand, displaying them almost as a prize just a few feet off the ground. “Well, you’d never reach it otherwise, little guy.” Mr. Stinkpot’s grin widened.
This new friend stiffened and seemed to change color. Stinkpot could've swore this as his new elf friend was red as a firetruck. “You… you’re really stu-”
Before, the driver could finish his retort, Stinkpot stepped back and leaned into the little Chevy that could. “No, little man. You’re going stop all of this pissing and moaning and get back on that highway. You have no business here. Whatever rage you were going to hand down to that lady, or whomever else, will have to wait.”
The driver slowly gave a forced chuckle as he shook his head from left to right. This little jack-off in tights was about to get hands on him. His advance would not be stopped again, “I’m not sure what your game is bu-”
The driver’s response is again cut-off, but this time by a loud rumble. At this, Stinkpot slightly turns himself away from the driver just enough to ease one cheek off of the surface of the Cruze and thus breaking the seal. The smell that followed the noise rivaled most pig farms. “Little man, you probably got a name right. Let’s call you Amos.”
Amos (possibly) looked like he had hit an invisible wall, “What?!? What the… Oh my god! What the f?”
“Amos, didn’t your mother ever tell you it was impolite to swear. Time to hit the road buddy.” He tosses Amos the keys.
“Nope not going to happen! And, that has got to peel paint. Get your shit-stained pants off my car.”
Mr. Stinkpot bows his head, pinches the bridge of his nose and gives a slight shake to the head. He sighs, "again with the swearing." He slowly straightens up, no longer leaning against the back of the vehicle. He turns and shows his back to Amos (his new little friend), raises his left leg and props himself on the car again. Mr. Stinkpot then bends his torso as far back as his frame would allow. He stretches his back and arms and farts again. “No, I’m going to hang out here. You can leave though.”
Amos (it could be) never experienced anything quite like this. This must be the extraordinary smell from that Seinfeld episode. The one that forced Jerry’s hand to give away a Saab. This was putrid. Worse than the time the raccoon got in the copier.
Amos (it's not that uncommon) staggered a ways and fell into his car. He fumbled with his keys as the smell started to overcome his car. Before the woman passenger could complain, the dadbod began to speak again, “Hey, what’s brown and sticky?”
Amos (it's gotta be more common than Cletus, right) and the woman exchange glances; they both shrug their shoulders and ask, “what?!?”
Mr. Stinkpot bellowed, “A stick. Now stick to the road and get eastbound before I let one go that makes you lose your lunch and any appetite for food again.”
As Amos (seriously could be) pulled away, he checked his mirrors. The annoying guy in the dadbod was gone as soon as he pulled back onto the ramp. He immediately started to wonder what happened. Amos (maybe - but, prolly not) will likely never know why Mr. Stinkpot raided his nostrils.
Mr. Stinkpot does not seek adulation. He seeks out injustices and wrongs and uses the only tools he has: horrible dad jokes and puns; and, a colon filled with Qdoba and carbonated beverages brewing the most intolerable gases known to man. He shows up when the need arises to annoy his charges enough to leave. With his dadbod, he is saving the Metro East one dad joke and gas attack at a time.
Mr. Stinkpot needs to brew more of that happy gas...
The smell of a balmy summer night in St. Louis: beer, popcorn, grass and burnt rubber. It was 9 p.m. and it had cooled to 87 degrees. People walking to the bars or their cars were talking about the brutal Cards team or discussed their next move. One such short, mousy haired gentlemen was walking with his girlfriend.
It's kind of a cliché Hollywood story right: the asshat jock had the hottest girl in town and mistreated her until she left. Then when the white knight - who was going to treat her like a fine young lady - comes along, that's when the asshat realizes what he's lost and does the last ditch attempt to win her back. So, we all know that story. It's pretty much the subplot to every teen movie; and, let's not forget about those all too tragic rom coms. No, we've all seen the tired story. We always root for the white knight and cheer when the girl inadvertently knocks the asshat into the pool as she turns to walk away from him.
So, why has it become common practice for businesses to do this to good talent. Why do they dangle the carrot, but never actually give up the damn thing? You see someone with strong potential