The Moral of the Story?
A rich farmer was doing some work on his farm out in the country and he left a big hole in the middle of one of his pastures. One morning a horse fell in the hole and couldn't get out. The horse yelled and yelled for help and finally a chicken heard him and ran over. "What's the matter," asked the chicken. "I'm stuck in this hole and I can't get out," yelled the horse.
The chicken ran and got the farmer, who hopped in his Mercedes, drove down to the field, and pulled the horse out of the hole.
A few days later, the horse heard cries coming from the same hole he had fallen in. He ran over and found the chicken stuck in the bottom of the hole. "What's the matter," asked the horse. "I fell in this stupid hole and I can't get out," yelled the chicken. "Go get the farmer and tell him to bring the Mercedes!"
"No," said the horse, "I can handle this." The horse straddled the hole and instructed the chicken to grab onto his penis [Note: the trucker actually used the word "penis."]. The chicken held on for dear life, and the horse managed to pull him out of the hole.
Now what's the moral of the story?
If you're hung like a horse, you don't need a Mercedes to pick up chicks.
As if the joke isn't good enough on its own, the comedian trucker was telling it to a girl from "The Body Shop," a truck-stop strip club that advertises solely over the CB. She read out her usual advertisement ("The Body Shop has free showers, free coffee, and live dancers for only a five dollar cover charge! Dancing right now are Krista, Alexa, and April. At seven we have three more dancers joining them on stage. Take it over to channel 16 for more information.") and this one particular trucker, apparently thrilled at hearing a female voice over the radio, whipped out his classiest horse cock joke to impress her.
Her entire reaction: "Yeah."
Aside from this golden nugget of trucker humor, I finally (finally, finally, FINALLY!) heard some drivers talking about "lot lizards." I read Sarah by J.T. LeRoy several years ago and have since hoped against all hope that I would one day be on the right channel on the right interstate to hear truckstop prostitution discussed in a non-fictional sphere. I hit the jackpot when a woman broadcast a request for a ride to Atlanta from somewhere around Lamar, PA. She sounded incredibly young--possibly what prompted a driver to offer his passenger seat, provided she didn't mind a quick pitstop in New York. The woman came back, confirming that not only was she of legal age, she was forty-eight years old.
I'm not positive that the trucker ever picked her up once he found out she was probably not the seventeen-year-old runaway of his dreams, but it was her presence on the CB that turned the conversation turned toward hookers. There was some debate as to whether or not their services could be employed in central Pennsylvania. One driver adamantly insisted that in his six and a half years on the road he had never encountered one and all but claimed they were a myth; another driver, however, declared he sees them all the time and implied he had procured their services more than once.
I was just excited that someone actually used the term "lot lizard." "Smokies" was starting to lose its panache.
This was all on Saturday night. On Sunday morning I listened to two truckers parked at a rest stop discuss why it is that women don't like the profession (everything from just not interested to can't hack it). The more gregarious of the two then began to wax poetic about life on the road, how the job is changing, the trials and tribulations of the trade. He lamented having to go on short runs--he'd been to New York City, Maine, Baltimore, and Pittsburgh that week, and was heading down south somewhere later that day.
"I'm a long-haul driver," he said. "Send me out for three weeks. What the fuck do I wanna go home for? My kids are all grown, and I sure as hell don't wanna see my wife."
"Yeeeaup," said the other. "I told my wife I was gonna be near home later on this week and she wants to meet up with me now."
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA," said the first. "That's what you get for telling her where you'll be. My wife has no idea where I am, man. No idea."
"Heh," said the other.
"My girlfriends do, though," lied the first driver, right through what I pictured as his very yellow teeth. "All my girlfriends got my schedule."
Why don't women want to be truck drivers? I could hardly stop myself from sprinting towards a semi at a rest stop and begging to be hired on the spot. The idea of spending twenty hours a day in the company of such fine men rivaled the unshakable allure of running away to the circus. I could almost smell the intoxicating aroma of jerky, naugahyde and chaw emanating from a cab, the fantasy beckoning me thither with one stinky finger.
Why don't women want to be truck drivers? Total mystery.