Tag Archives: trucker sex

Chubby sexy cousins and other disturbing things

So, awhile back I wrote a post in which I listed some of the fascinating things people Googled that led them inexplicably to my website. Oh yes, folks, my website host keeps track of that stuff (you naughty, naughty readers, you).

And as it so happens, this second wine of glass I’m drinking made me realize that we are way over due for another round of this fun (and by fun, I mean HIGHLY disturbing) little game.

Now, before we begin, let me just say that I’m not entirely sure why Google hates me, but hey, I’ll take all the views I can get, even if it is mainly composed of lonely men in their basements looking up “facebook carrot vagina.” (Seriously. Google directed that person to this site…why you gotta hate, Google?).

And so, without further ado…

“Trucker sex” (I’m actually giving Google a free pass on this one. I did actually write about trucker sex once. Hi mom!)

“Chubby sexy cousin” (1. Awesome band name. 2. Should I be offended or should one of my cousins?)

“I am your brother, don’t worry” (I swear, despite this and the one above, I’ve never written about incest)

“I think Winston is cute, too bad he’s gay” (Uh…?)

“Muumuu jokes” (It’s a niche market and apparently it’s all mine)

“Montel Williams shirtless” (I worry about the future of humanity)

“Person crying/Man crying/Geeky guy eating while crying” (Oh god, did I accidentally turn my husband into a meme?)

“Wife home alone” (Apparently I also appeal to rapists, so…cool?)

“here is to all the meanie pies who are always bullying me and forcing me to eat eggnog” (Google, I demand you ban this individual from my website post haste and henceforth! I won’t tolerate that kind of hate speech)

“Humans eating live birds” (The hell, Google!?!)

“Where are your ovaries” (I did actually draw a diagram once, so…well played, Google)

“my hot college boyfriend england” (???)

“my husband is a drunk idiot” (Heh. Sorry, babe. I think I did turn you into an Internet meme)

“Crappy photo of woman” (Aw…now you’re just being mean, you guys)

“Pregnant 49 weeks” (Holy crap, can that even happen? Google, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I’m thinking WebMD would probably be more appropriate. And/or urging her to immediately dial 911)

“aprill brandon smoking” (I know that’s you, mom! I’m working on it. Back off)

“Cool grandma sex”/”naked breasts of middle-aged females” (Aw…now I has a sad)

“Big nose booger” (Always keeping it classy up here at Broke Wife, Big City)

“Potty mumu poop” (Oh yeah, no, my writing career is going great)

“I can’t help it if your mommy doesn’t know how to dress you cute” (WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!?!)

“Aneurysm headache location” (Again, Google, WebMD would probably be better for this now almost definitely dead person)

“buffy dog w/ no pants” (Why would you even need to look that…nope, you know what…I don’t care…Screw you, Google).

“Writers drink and smoke” (After reading this, can you honestly blame us?)

Road hookin’

They say that a true sign of wisdom is when you finally know just how much you don’t know. They also say it’s cliché to start an article with the phrase “they say.” But “they” can suck it. I like how it sounds.

(I also enjoy the “good news/bad news” cliché from time to time and the occasional question lede).

Anyhoo, moving on. If that is the case, then I am now about as wise as…as…uh, I don’t know…Angela Lansbury, maybe? Or perhaps the big-boobed mom from “Facts of Life.” Yeah, definitely the big-boobed mom from “Facts of Life.”

Because despite the numerous road trips I have taken across this great country of ours (like this one, or this one, or this one), I am not too proud to admit that I remained ignorant of an apparently somewhat common road tradition.

That is, until this latest 14-hour trek to the Mid-west I recently took.

It all started when I noticed that an unusually large number of trucks kept flashing their lights and honking at me as I barreled down the highway. Now, in my experience, this kind of behavior meant one of two things:

  1. There is a cop up ahead. And you are going 93 miles per hour. Slow down, dumbass. Or…
  2. Your car, which is being held together with duct tape, has something visibly and very, very wrong with it. Like your trunk just fell off.

However, after about three panick-y inspections of my vehicle at rest stops, I knew it wasn’t No. 2 and I immediately dismissed No. 1 since my car can’t go over 75 miles per hour without switching into what I like to call “Seizure Mode.”

So, I decided to call an expert, who, based on the fact that 1. she drives and 2. calls me “kiddo,” would have the answer.

“Mom? Trucks keep honking their horns at me and flashing their lights. What gives?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s how they try to get your attention when they want you to pull over at the next exit with them.”


“I know you’re not that naive.”

“How the hell do you know this?”

“The 80’s were a crazy time, kid.”*

Of course, seeing as how I drive a 2004 Hyundai Accent, which is technically the smallest car you can get without being a card-carrying member of the Circus Clown Car Union, I immediately dismissed what she said. There is absolutely nothing about that car that says “Hey, I’m a road hooker!”  If anything, it says “Hey, I dig doing puzzles on Saturday night with my cat!” Sure, it gets great gas mileage, but I doubt that’s what these guys are looking for.

“Wow. She gets 38 miles to the gallon? That chick must be down for a good time at a seedy truck stop!”

But then, this happened:

I’m in the left lane. Some white pick-up is in the right. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him creeping up on me. Soon, we are side by side. The truck then falls back. Repeat three times. Cut to me getting annoyed because I hate when people don’t abide by the “left is the passing lane” rule. It throws off the ENTIRE flow of traffic. So I, thinking he wants to pass me and considering my car is already in heavy “Seizure Mode,” slow down and pull into the right lane behind him. As we approach the next exit, he starts hitting his brakes. And now, I’m super-duper annoyed because this jackass just two seconds ago wanted to pass me. He then starts to get on the exit ramp and as I speed past him, he begins flashing his lights and honking his horn as he rolls off toward the exciting world of Snow Shoe, PA.

And that’s when it hit me.

I just apparently accidentally gave the international road hooker sign that said “YES! I will get off this exit with you and then we can make a bastard in some Exxon Mobile/Subway parking lot!”

I felt bad for a bit. Even though I just thought I was being a polite driver, my actions caused this poor horny pick-up driver to not only lose a good two minutes of traveling time as he wandered his way through some podunk town, but had also dashed his hopes that he would soon be able to tell his buddies he scored with some Massachusetts foreign car drivin’ slut.

And that bad feeling lasted for all of two seconds.

But then, just to bring this whole thing full circle, I realized that even though I now know about this underground road sex tradition, there is still so much more that I don’t know. Like, if you do actually get off the exit with these guys, how does it work? Do you park side by side? Do you choose the McDonald’s parking lot or Taco Bell? Or is Arby’s considered classier? Do you introduce yourselves or just get down to business? My car or yours? Afterwards, do I at least get a cup of gas station coffee in return? Or maybe a large bag of Cheetos if my performance was suitable?

So many questions. So many no-way-in-hell will I ever know the answers.

But, I guess in the end, you just have to take the good and take the bad and there you have the facts of life.**

*I may have made that last part up.

**See? So wise now.