They say that it's not speed that kills you, it’s the whole "stopping" thing, and I'm inclined to agree; I've seen some stuff do some funky things at a decent speed. Take the frosty chocolate milkshake for example.
It's the fall of 2008 and I'm still dating my high school sweetheart, Jade. We're bombing down Township Road 712, leaving sixty-eighth ave in our dust. It's about eleven p.m. and we're going to meet my buddy Julian at his house for pizza and movies. My Cavalier is running like snot and life is good. The stars are bright and the woods around us are dark—it's the perfect night. There's headlights in the distance, so I turn my brights off. They do what I do, nice folks, right? Wrong.
They're about a hundred meters away and from an open window, there's a spray. It's thick. It's going eighty-five kilometers an hour—right at my face. Luckily, I'm not the type to forget about windshields and things of the like and my window’s up, so I keep my cool and stay true to the road. The slop impacts us and coats the top portion of my side of the windshield before starting to run up the roof of the car and across the window beside me.
"What the fuck?" comes from the passenger seat, and I can't do anything but echo the sentiment myself. Its dark and it's thick. I think they just threw a milkshake at us! The wipers aren't doing a thing, and we’re starting to drift into unsafe territory as far as my vision goes.
I throw on the hazards and slow down. The road has no lights on it at all, so I play it as safe as possible and pull almost fully into the ditch. I check to see if there's anything coming so I can jump out, but as soon as I cracked the door, it hit me.
The thick yet runny, smooth yet chunky chocolate milkshake that now coated my vehicle was not in fact a frosty chocolate milkshake. It was the raunchiest form of human bile known to man and it was seeping into every smell receptor in my nose. We were hit by (at least) an eighty-five kilometer an hour projectile vomit from a moving car. Those punks!
I slam the door as tight as I can without opening it anymore and I turned to Jade. "It's friggin puke." Her eyes widen and the corners of her mouth damn near shot below her chin. Repulsed. I know that look. It's reserved for the holy trinity of P's. Poop, Pee, and Puke. I fish around in the cab in a fruitless effort to find anything to wash it off cause the wiper fluid won't reach, until I remember the flat of water I had in the trunk.
Being the giant wuss that I am, I opted to wrestle my way to the trunk from inside the car rather than get out and face the smell for any longer than I had to. I climb over my own seat and thrust my portly top half into the back seat while my love handles threaten to smother my date beside me. I unlatch the backrest and hump it into submission down onto the seat itself. With a great heave that cost me at least four inches of pant coverage over my ass, I reach into the trunk, past the plastic and cardboard that encased the holy grail of universal puke solvent and seize a bottle.
Out of breath, red in the face and with half my ass resting bare on the seat beneath me, I kiss my girl for luck and psyche myself up to get out of the car. I take a deep breath and throw the door open, but we're on such an angle because of the ditch, the door comes back at me. I catch it and thrust myself out of the car, only to put my hand square in the vomit on top of the car. I start to heave and look for grass. I find some, vacate myself onto it, and repeat. Once I wipe my hand on the ground and give it a spritzing with the bottle, I'm ready to be a man. To take care of business.
I held my breath some more and emptied the bottle onto the windshield with my eyes closed. I'm not ashamed. I wipe my hands on my jacket, throw the jacket in the trunk and get back in the driver’s seat. Within an hour we had laughed about it and were eating Buster's Pizza watching Douglas Coupland's Souvenir of Canada.
And that's the story of the eighty-five kilometer an hour milkshake.
Writer, performer, producer and musician from Alberta.