Murphy's World

Why truck stops shouldn’t sell chocolate milk

I was just leaving a truck stop in Lake Station, IN, that had one bumpy parking lot. I filled my tanks up and picked up my favorite treat: chocolate milk. It’s the sweet poison of my waistline, and I have a place up on the dash of my Century where the curve of the windshield, the slope of the dash and a well-placed Bible do twice the job of any high-end milk holder.
     When my truck ran through one of those canyons of broken asphalt, my half-gallon of chocolaty goodness erupted like a volcano of mocha. My windows were instantly tinted and my seat had a new squishy feeling that I found surprisingly refreshing. In my rush to get the tires rolling, I thought that nothing would dry the truck’s interior quicker than rolling across the Indiana countryside with the windows down. How wrong could I be?
     After half an hour of open road with the windows down, I was taken out of my groove by a bee. Bees freak me out, and a bee hit the leading edge of my mirror and landed in my lap. I have several emergency plans in place for such an event, but the only thought that crossed my mind was to jump out of that moving truck.
     I knew at those speeds it would be some time before I saw my truck again, so I chose a second option. Meanwhile, the bee was getting his senses back. And he was in position to make my day much worse. Something had to be done, and quickly.
     I pulled my four-way flashers and hit the shoulder. After jumping from my truck, I decided to abandon the equipment. I was sure I could find another carrier, but then I remembered I’d left my chocolate milk in the truck. I wasn’t about to give it up to any insect. I did what any bee-fearing, milk-loving man would do in that situation: I grabbed the fire extinguisher and gave that little bugger five pounds of bee-blasting powder.
     When the dust settled, I stood there with a great sense of expectation. Then I saw it: That little son of a gun was sitting on my milk jug. I threw my hands up and started yelling.
     That’s when an Indiana State patrolman came to my rescue. He asked what was going on. About a minute into the story, he stopped me. He said that this wasn’t an area in which the state patrol does well. Then as quickly as it happened, the bee had his fill. He took flight on the wisp of a passing truck. He presence was gone, but the memories will last a lifetime.
     Bee Charmer in Indiana

Dear Charmer,
We’ve been answering letters to Murphy for a long time, but this is the first time we’re going to just let the letter speak for itself. I’m sure we could come up with something clever, but why spoil a “bee-utiful” story?   

Regards,

Murphy and Lucky Dog