Thrill of the Grill - A Johnny Style Adventure

*note: This is, without a doubt, one of the best posts I've never written. Thanks, Tom, Viking Actor, for writing it. Laughed till I cried.

Gravity is a harsh mistress…

I was called upon by our Johnny Style for a small uneventful errand. He needed a hand picking up a grill and some accessories from a friend’s house to bring to his own house out in the Jersey suburbs. I was called upon for my skill and stunning good looks, natch.

How we moving all this stuff?
I got a truck.
You rented a truck?
No, I got the bosses truck.
He lent it to you?
I got the bosses truck.
Does he know you have his prized truck?
I’ll be by the gym in half an hour.

TIP: We call this foreshadowing, folks.

I come down from the gym to discover what can only be described as a phallic moon rover of a vehicle. It had like seventeen wheels and thirty six doors with a million gadgets and thingys and blipity blips. It sat levitating on 67th street, the airlock opened with a hiss and a belch of pressurized atmosphere escaped. The paint was pristine, the chrome was pristine, the interior was pristine and the sound system was incredible. The thing was immaculate. This wasn’t a truck, this was the penis men wished they had.

I drive a Neon, by the way. Four cylinder. 132 horses. Yup…. …..

With the stereo a-pumping, we drove deep into mid afternoon Manhattan traffic to Brooklyn in the comfort of the Death Star. I couldn’t feel a bump, hear a sound outside or see anything for at least twenty five feet directly in front of us. Johnny screamed over the music, “Great, huh?” I just smiled and nodded wondering if my fillings would vibrate out of my teeth.

ITEM: Johnny Style is not the smoothest of drivers. It’s like he’s playing a bass drum solo with both feet alternating between the brake and accelerator pedal. Shaken, definitely not stirred. The ride could be described as vomit-inducing, life changing, altering my sperm count and even as a catalyst for finding religion – all at less than ten miles per hour.

We took the turn off the highway up the hill to Johnny’s friend’s place about an hour later. That’s the great thing about New York City, it takes an hour to drive fourteen miles in the middle of the day when you’d think every one would be at work. Johnny’s pal moved out and left him the grill and a few other yard items. One of which was one of those assemble it yourself shed-cabinet-storage things. I thought I’d grab that first to make room in the hallway for the grill which had to be hoisted and carried through the house from back yard to front. The house is attached on both sides, you see. Remembering the last time I tried lifting something in Johnny’s presence, I made sure my testes were secure and ready for the jolt. I squatted, held my breath, hugged the cabinet and lifted with all my strength anticipating the heavy load.

We stood there for a few minutes wondering if the real estate people would notice the indent in the ceiling that matched perfectly the shape of the top of the cabinet. Apparently, the cabinet was made out of hollow plastic and lifted off the ground rather easily.

We moseyed back into the house, out to the back yard where I thought we’d find one of those little Hibatchi numbers you get at the hardware store.

ITEM: What’s with men? Why is there a need to show the world how huge our individual penises (penisii?) are by surrounding ourselves with outlandishly garish and un-necessary items like cars that could double as planetoids and barbecue grills that rival Mission Control during NASA’a heyday? I state here for the record, real men, those secure in their own shoes, need no such glittery devices to distract from their short comings for they are confident, walk head up and shoulders squared.

I mentioned I drive a Neon, right?

We found the gas tank under the lower hull and tried to disconnect it from the mammoth underbelly. Johnny, being pulled in by the hypnotic lure of back yard cookouts, keeping up with the Joneses and proving once and for all who has the biggest thingest tried snapping the gas line off with the tip of a screwdriver.

TIP: Sparks plus flammable gas = no eyebrows. Learn it, love it, live it.

I seized the line from Johnny and disconnected it before losing what’s left of my sparse brow. It was at this point I knew I should have brought an extra sack for my nuts. The grill was incredibly heavy. We hauled it across the yard, up the stairs, into the house, across the entire length of the house, out the front door, across the porch, down the 4000 Mayan temple steps, out to the curb and to the back of the overcompensation-mobile. Johnny was huddled over the tail gate huffing and trying to say something. I turned my back on the grill and went over to his aid.

“Huhhh, huhhh, uhhh, heppinhonhieutz…”
What?
"heppingoneyehutz, cough…”
What, are you saying anything I need to understand?
He pulled me down to his level by the collar and wheezed into my ear… "I think…you’re stepping…on my nuts…"
Oh, I thought that was a bean bag left by the dog or something. Oh.
cough

I was just glad my nuts were intact. (I was glad to have it happen to someone else for a change.) While swearing me to secrecy about the whole lift and crawl we heard a strange scraping sound.

What is that?
My nuts rolling back up my leg?
No really what is that? It sounds like…

We both looked at each other with a puzzled expression that slowly turned to confused horror.

The grill …

Is rolling…

Down the hill…

It has wheels?!

It has freaking wheels?!

It has wheels.

Hmh, I can’t believe it has freaking wheels

Yup.

We stood there stunned watching the grill get smaller and smaller in our field of vision. It clattered and clanged and jolted it’s way down Senator street toward the intersection. Somewhere from down the street we heard a female voice yell, “Hey, did you just see a barbecue go by?”

Running at full speed, I started to feel my pulse thunder in my neck as my heart pounded in my chest. The muscles in my legs were burning and tightening up with each step. I didn’t think I’d make it in time. I began gaining ground as we approached the corner. I reached out for the runaway grill extending my fingers. It was then that it all went batty. There was a ping, a sudden stop and my body hitting the grill full force with an ungodly loud bang. Blackness.

ITEM: All this story needs is an old lady pushing a baby carriage at the corner.

I awoke looking out at the cloudy sky looking for a word that rhymes with Klaus Kinski. I was then wondering who Klaus Kinski was. Johnny interrupted my little conversation to tell me I had hit the grill after it had hit a small pothole, tumbled over it about fifty times and together we skidded to a stop next to a fire hydrant. I asked if I could take a nap and if his sister still had those great legs. He informed me that I could not take a nap and he did not have a sister.

After a few minutes we gathered my nuts and several pieces of grill and tossed them into the truck. We had a laugh at the fact that even though we got banged up we didn’t damage his bosses truck. As we pulled away we heard this loud bang. Real loud.

Did you make sure the tailgate was locked?

Well, you know the rest…