The Hooker, The Horndog, and The Hamburger

Well, it’s certainly good to see you again, my friends. Thanks for calling. I’d say it’s time for a little fun. Jump in the cab, and let’s go for a ride. This one’s on me.

Now, I don’t know about you, but the summer heat was really beginning to get to me. Actually, it’s not the heat at all, but all the (half) wits that constantly ask, "Is it hot enough for you?”

"I like to have a little fun with these morons, usually saying something like: Actually, I consider these kind of brutal temperatures to be merely a “warm up” for the eternity I will spend in Hell, a fate to be earned for the brutal murder I have decided to commit. I have chosen as my victim the one-thousandth person who asks me that question this summer. Wait a minute! Let me check my scorecard. (I pull a piece of paper out of my pocket, and pretend to consult it.) Yeah, I thought so. I was up to nine hundred, ninety-nine yesterday, and you’re today’s first…

You have my permission to try this yourself. The looks you’ll see are always good for a laugh.

Hey, you might get a kick out of these three short stories. I call this triplet

“The Hooker, the Horndog, and the Hamburger"

The Hooker
You know, I really enjoy being a professional cab driver. Apart from the obvious attractions of the job (like the low pay and long hours), I get to meet all sorts of very interesting people. Why just the other day I met this very charming young lady. She was dressed in not much more than boots, hot pants and belly shirt. I was at the corner of Twenty-Fourth and Van Buren (which if you're not familiar with Phoenix is a notorious "hooker walk"), when she walked up to me and asked if I was in service.
Well, folks, your Cab Guy is always “in service,” so I said, "You bet!”

She hops in the back seat, and I ask her where she’s going. Now, I don’t recall exactly where it was she was going, but I do seem to remember that it was only about two or three miles. She asked how much the fare was going to be. I told her that it would be about five or six dollars. She then inquired if, rather than charging her for the trip, I would take a blowjob instead. Sadly, friends, I had to decline. I told her that I could not accommodate her in that particular fashion. She became indignant, asking,

"Why the Hell not? Listen, you’re telling me that the fare is only five or six dollars. You gotta know that a blowjob is worth twenty!"

"Maybe so,” I say.

“The problem is, I can’t make change for a blowjob!”

So she paid cash. No tip though. Well, that’s a hooker for you! “Loose puss, tight purse," I always say!

The Horndog
Like I said, I meet all kinds of folks. Later that same night I was working in Scottsdale, and this guy flags me down, and gets into my cab. Now, friends, it was obvious that he was drunk, but until he told me so, it was not obvious that he was from out of town. (Not that I discriminate against “out-of-towners.” I do my best to be scrupulously fair, and charge everyone the same. As much as I can!) Anyway, he proceeds to tell me that he is from Chicago, and that he’s just in town for the weekend, on business. Then he asks me to take him to “where the hookers hang out.” Business trip? Funny business, more like it!

Well, of course your Cab Guy is hip. I know all the hot spots, although most visitors to our fair city usually ask me to take them to a nice bar or restaurant, or the closest movie theater. But who am I to judge? As a matter of fact, being a professional driver for hire, I love these kinds of trips. Most guys can’t make up their minds right away, and just like a kid in toy store, they have to look at all the merchandise being offered, before they make up their minds as to what to buy. Many times, this can involve several passes up and down the boulevard before the “purchase order” is placed, if you know what I mean. Meanwhile, the meter is running. And in the cab business, time, most assuredly, is money! So, anyway, I flip the meter on, and off we go.

Now a lot of people like to make conversation during their cab ride, and I am very happy to accommodate them, because, after all, I am first and foremost, a “people person.” This guy was no different, talking about his job and such like, and asking me questions about Arizona and the Phoenix area. Pretty soon we arrived in the part of town where the hookers hang out, and this guy throws me a curve ball, saying that he wants to get out and walk around a bit, that he’d call when he was ready for a ride back to his hotel. Disappointed as I was at the loss of all that “drive time”, I said

“Very good, sir,”

and pulled into a handy parking lot to let him out. As I was about to tell him the fare, all of a sudden, out of the blue, he asks me,

“Hey, Buddy, how much is a blowjob!”

I found this inquiry, and it’s implications, to be somewhat offensive, so I asked him,

“Sir, is it customary in Chicago for cab drivers to blow their customers? I’m curious, because here in Phoenix we usually just pick ‘em up and drop ‘em off.”

He was somewhat taken aback by this, saying,

“Sorry, Buddy, I think you misunderstand me. I mean, how much do the hookers charge?”

“Sir,” I reply, somewhat tersely,

“I believe I understand you perfectly well. I realize that to you I must seem like some nameless, faceless schmo, just a cabbie, a working class grunt, hardly fit to move about in the rarified realms of what you must consider to be polite society. However, I insist upon drawing the line at this implied slur on my character, little of it that I have, and so I must ask you, do I really look like the kind of degenerate who frequents the company of hookers, to the extent that I would have intimate knowledge of the fees they require for their services?"

He appeared stunned, shocked by my response to what he obviously believed to be a routine question, one that could be asked of any taxi driver in any city of the world, with the expectation of the receipt of a simple answer like “Twenty bucks.” He looked at me for several seconds, obviously not knowing what to say.

And then, suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown in his skull, I can see the little light bulb go on. His brain has finally analyzed what I just said to him, and he doesn’t like the obvious implication. So he says,

“H-e-e-e-y-y-y! Are you implying that I’m a degenerate?”

“Sir,” I reply, “I prefer not to make implications when bold statements of fact will do. Suffice it to say that I am not a degenerate. As to your own moral inadequacies, well, that I leave to you. Good day to you, Sir, that will be twenty dollars.”

Oddly enough, he didn’t give much of a tip. And I thought that we had been getting on well together. Some people!

The Hamburger
It was later on that same evening that I realized that we as a society use computers way too much, and it’s making some people dumber. I stopped into a local fast food franchise, intending to procure my evening meal. Now, I don’t want to reveal the name of the chain, but this clown at the drive through window told me that the store was closed; I’d have to go to another location. Being hungry, and a little perturbed by this turn of events, I asked him how this could be so.

“I mean,” I asked, “Aren’t you open twenty-four hours a day?”

“Yes we are, under normal circumstances. But the computers are down.”

So I said, “Now, call me old fashioned, but what in the hell does a computer have to do with cooking up a burger and fries? I’ve always thought that you just had someone throw the meat on the grill, and stand by to turn it when each side was done.”

“Actually, Sir,” he said, “We don’t actually use the computer to cook the burger."

I knew I was going to have problems with this guy after hearing him use the word "actually" two times in one sentence.

"But," he continued, "it does run the cash register, which I need in order to make the sale.”

“Let me tell you something, kiddo,”

I say at this point,

“I’ve been ordering the same hamburger for years. It’s been priced at ninety-nine cents, plus tax, for years. Now I know, and you know, and I know you know, and you know I know you know, that the price of the burger, fully loaded, with all the bells and whistles, including license, tax, registration, dealer prep and delivery fees, comes to exactly one dollar and eight cents! So why don't you just cook the damn hamburger, give it to me, I’ll give to the money, and you can write down the sale and enter it later. That way everyone’s happy, or at least I’m happy, and that’s all that really matters, right? Make the freakin’ customer happy, right?"

"‘Cause I gotta tell you, right now I am very unhappy, and you hold the power to end my unhappiness, and bring a little joy in my otherwise bleak existence. Come on! Look at me! I’m driving a cab, for God’s sake! You have to know how much that hamburger means to me! It’s more than just sustenance! Right now, it’s my lifeline to sanity! A reminder that I can have things from a life outside of the inside of this cab! Please, oh God, please, make me a hamburger! I am begging you to show some compassion! Feed me! Feed Me!”

Well, that hamburger man must have been made of titanium, because he just wouldn’t budge. My story had left him unmoved, for nary a teardrop did I see at the corners of his eyes, which weren’t even moist. He watched me abase myself, reducing myself to a quivering lump of jelly, begging for a burger, but still, he would not help me.

Woe was me. Hell, for all I know, it was the computer that had the instructions for making the burger, which would prove my assertion that computers are making us dumber. I drove out of there a broken, hungry, saddened man, filled with the realization that the milk of human kindness just does not flow from some people, but empty of burger.

Sigh. I guess next time I’ll pack a lunch.

Well, friends, I’ve enjoyed our time together. These are all true stories. They actually happened exactly the way I have told them to you. I may have exaggerated just a little, in the interests of poetic license, and all that, but it’s the truth nonetheless. I’ll see you all next time. Please exit on the curb side of the vehicle, and watch your step getting out.

Have a nice day, and so long!

(A version of this post first appeared in the July 10, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine," a Phoenix, Arizona biweekly entertainment magazine, under the byline of 'Matt "The Cab Guy" Kelly.')

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The Last Minute Express

The other day I had a call to pick up a guy (let’s just call him “John”), in Gilbert, and take him to the airport. I was supposed to be there at 1:00pm, but as the call was sent to me just a few minutes before 1:00, and because I was unfamiliar with his neighborhood, which was a brand new subdivision, and because traffic was rather heavy, I was about fifteen minutes late picking John up.

When I got to his address, he got into my cab and began to berate me for being late, as it was very important that he make his flight. We had to be to the airport by two-fifteen. Since we were about thirty or forty minutes from the airport, I knew that it was going to be a really close call.

I thought to myself,

“You know, only a moron would allow so little time for such an important trip. Even if he was absolutely certain he’d be picked up on time, you’d think that he might have enough imagination to allow for time killers like flat tires and heavy traffic.”

But, rather than saying this him, I said,

“No problem sir, we’ll be to the airport by about two o’clock.”

He visibly relaxed, and off we go.

After a few minutes, John said to me,

“You know, I don’t have my ticket yet, so we need to stop and pick it up.”

Did he just say, ‘I don’t have my ticket yet?’

“Well, where do we have to go to get it?”, I said.

He replies, “Well, he lives at about Fifty Second Street and Van Buren, and because he’s leaving his house soon, we need to be there by a quarter to two.”

Talk about pressure! I was pretty sure I’d get him to the airport by two, but with this side trip, I now had my doubts, because it’s already one twenty-five, and we were still almost twenty miles from Ticket Guy’s house. We were going to have to hit every traffic light green, and go balls to the walls on the freeway to even have a chance. Needless to say, I’m a little worried. You would be, too! But I’m a professional, so I tell the guy that I’d do my best, but I wouldn’t risk a ticket or wreck.

I put the hammer down, and offered to lend him my cell phone to call Ticket Guy to buy a few minutes, but he had his own phone, and sensibly, made the call. Ticket Guy didn’t answer. It figures! Anyway, by driving an average of about ten miles per hour over the speed limit, I got Mr. Leave-It-To-The-Last-Minute to Ticket Guy’s house with about five minutes to spare. Whew, what a relief! Not only was Ticket Guy at home, but John came back to the car with a smile on his face!

So, it’s now about one-forty, and we’re only about ten minutes from the airport. As long as nothing goes wrong, I’m going to get him there with plenty of time to spare.

Now, under normal circumstances, this would pretty much be the end of the story. But, if you’ve read my column for any length of time, you know this isn’t the end of the story. (Can anyone out there guess what is coming next? Yes? No? Maybe? Well, read on.) By the way, I forgot to mention that I had been sucking on a Super-Duper Extra Large size soda for about an hour, and a few minutes after picking John up, I began to feel a slight urge to find a tree. As we left Ticket Guy’s place, that slight urge began to move a little higher up on my list of things to do. Just what I needed at this particular moment in time: more pressure! Anyway, back to our story; where were we? Oh yeah…

So, it’s now about one-forty, and we’re about ten minutes from the airport, plenty of time for John to make his flight. As we pull out on to the road, John says to me,

“You know, airplane food is terrible, and I’m really hungry. Take me to the Jack-In-The-Box drive through.”

Well, why the hell not? It’s only about a mile away, in the opposite direction, is likely to have a seven car wait, but, hell, we’ve got plenty of time to spare, lets go for it! As I turn the car around towards The Jack, I began thinking,

"What’s up with this jag-off? He was practically screaming at me half an hour earlier for being late, but now he’s telling me that there’s nothing more important in his life at this very minute than a freakin’ Jumbo Jack with cheese, which he just has to have before he gets on the plane, which at this point is looking like it’s going to get in the air before the first French fry gets down his cake-hole. What the hell is up with this guy!”

But, ever the Helpy Helperton, I say,

“Jack-In-The-Box it is, sir!”

Luckily, there wasn’t a line at all, but the service was really slow, with a net result of only about ten of his precious minutes being chewed up, much like what he did to two Jumbo Jack’s, and a large fries. It’s now about one-fifty, but we’re still not much more than ten minutes from the airport, so I’m going to have John to the airport at about exactly two o’clock, which is what he said he wanted in the first place. With any luck at all, I’ll be able to put an “X” in the box marked, “Another satisfied customer.”

But wait! There’s more! Mr. “Leave it all to the last minute, fuck-it, I like living on the edge, because it gives me such a rush!” has additional plans that must come to fruition before I can finally drop him at the check-in counter, so he can haul his sorry ass up the jetway and get on that big silver bird. Now, I know what you’re thinking, because I was thinking it, too:

“What the hell else can he possibly need to do, seeing that time, precious time, is so short?”

Well, friends, let me tell you, although it blows my mind to remember it, just as we’re pulling into the airport, John pulls out his cell phone, and calls what sounds like his wife. He talks to her for about a minute, and when we’re about three seconds from turning off onto the ramp leading to the terminal, he tells me there’s going to be another short side trip, because he wants to go give his wife a kiss goodbye! He says to me,

“She works over near Twenty-Fourth Street and University. We can be there and back by two-fifteen, right?”

Can you believe it? I still cringe when I recall the moment…Anyway, I’m thinking,

“Why in the hell should you stop at a kiss! Why not grab the wife AND the kids, get a picnic basket from the nearest deli, head on out to the park and make a fuckin’ day of it. We’ve got plenty of time! The plane, and whatever you we’re going to do when you finally get where you were going, can wait! Let’s live for the moment! How about we go to a strip club, shove some dollars into the G-strings of a few strippers, and really get down! Then, when the excitement of seeing all those naked titties begins to pale, let’s stop and get the cab washed, waxed, and detailed!! And what the hell, while we’re at it, let’s stop and get a hooker, and have her suck some of the tension out of what is by now an extremely tense situation, at least from my point of view.”

And why shouldn’t I be tense? If this guy misses his flight, you and I both know it’s going to be his fault, but I know who he’s going to blame. That’s right, your Cab Guy! He’s not going to consider all the side trips he added on to the trip, he’s just going to think about how I picked him up twenty minutes late. There’s just now way I can win. But what I say is…

“Sure, why not, I’m kind of a romantic at heart, let’s go for it!”

What the hell, the meter’s running, isn’t it? Just as long as he doesn’t ask at the end of the trip if I take credit cards, because it takes a couple of minutes to process the transaction, and I want this guy gone.

So, anyway, we go over to where John’s wife works. When we get there, he calls her out, and they stand there hugging and kissing for a few minutes. I’m starting to get diabetes, the scene was so sweet. They kiss one last time, and as she turns to walk away, John gets back into the car, shuts the door, leans back with a contented look on his face, and sighs. I’m touched. He says,

“Okay, we can go back to the airport now, I’ll still make the plane on time.”

Well, it’s about freakin’ time, because I’ve got to piss like a racehorse. Relief is just a few minutes away. Away we go…

As we pull into the terminal, I say,"Thank you for your business sir. That will be sixty-five dollars.”

And he says, (All together now, with feeling and harmony…)

“Do you take credit cards?”

I almost wet my pants!

Until next we meet…

(A version of this column first appeared in the December 11-24, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine," a Phoenix, Arizona biweekly entertainment magazine, under the byline of 'Matt "The Cab Guy" Kelly.'

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The Gas Can and the Traffic Cop

Hello again, my good friends. I’m glad that you could come along on this week’s journey. Since we last conversed, not one person has asked me, “Well, is it hot enough for you?” I guess the word got out that I hate this question. But it has been a hot summer so far here in the Metro Phoenix area. Here’s a good survival technique: stay inside as much as possible!

But seriously folks, no matter where you are, drink plenty of fluids, and don’t forget the same for your car’s radiator. As a matter of fact, while we’re talking about it, go ahead and fill up a gallon jug with water, and put it in the trunk of your car, just in case. You never know when you, or the car, are going to need a drink. Nothing beats planning, that’s what I always say. Say, that reminds me of a couple of short little anecdotes.


"The Gas Can"

I think that it’s always a good thing to plan for every contingency, or at least as many as you can think of. However, I know there are people out there who think they are good planners, but in reality, aren’t. I mean, on the surface, it appears they have good planning skills, but when you get right down to it, they really don’t have a clue. Here’s a good example. The other day I was tooling down the freeway when I came upon this car off to the side of the road, with its’ flashers blinking. As I went by, I saw that there was no one in the car. A few seconds later, I came upon a guy walking down the side of the freeway, carrying a little red can. Ah, the mystery is solved! I pulled over, and gave him a ride to the nearest gas station, and didn’t charge him for the effort. He thanked me, and I went on my way, as I had to pick someone up few minutes later.

As I drove away, I got to thinking about this fellow’s lack of ability in the effective planning department. Of course, some of you have figured out what’s going on, and agree with me: the guy was a poor planner. And I know that some of you reading this right now are saying, “Lack of planning? Cab Guy, the dude was obviously a planner! He had a gas can in the car, just in case he ran out of gas! If that’s not planning, tell me what is, smart guy!” Well, to you folks I say, yeah, you’re right, the guy was a planner. But what he planned to do was run out of gas!

That’s right, he planned to run out of gas. Why else would he have a little red gas can in his trunk? I mean, it’s not the same thing as having jumper cables in the car, just in case your battery goes dead. Most of the time that you need your jumper cables, your battery went dead without any warning whatsoever. But when was the last time your gas tank went empty with no warning whatsoever? It just doesn’t happen.

Now, a few years ago, a buddy of mine had a car that gave audible warnings for various conditions his car was in. For example, if he left his lights on after turning off the engine, a little voice would say, “Lights are on!” My friend would then turn his lights off. Anyway, I was thinking, for those people who carry the little red gas can in the trunk, what they really need is this sort of audible warning system, because it’s obvious they either:

a) pay absolutely no attention to the gas gauge; b) don’t believe it anyway, or:
c) pay attention to the gauge, know it is correct, but believe that the truth doesn’t apply to them in this particular situation. (Oh yes, there are indeed people who have just such a warped sense of reality!)

So Detroit, give these people a little help, and put an audible gas warning in cars. Here are my suggestions for the warning statements:

1. “You have less than a quarter of a tank of gas remaining. Might I suggest you fill up soon?”
2. “Your fuel situation is getting critical. You have two gallons of gas remaining. Please stop for gas in the next few minutes.”
3. “Hey, buddy. I’m working off fumes. How about we get some gas? Now!”
4. “Uh, dude, I hope you have got on some comfortable shoes, ‘cause you’ll be walkin’ real soon!”
5. (As the car comes to a juddering halt.) “Okay, I tried to warn you, but no, you wouldn’t listen! You figured you could stretch it just a few more miles. Well, screw you, Einstein! I’m empty! Get out, and start walking! And take that stupid little red can with you, moron!”

You know, I’m not really sure this would cure the problem of people running out of gas, now that I think about it. Considering that most of today’s cars not only have the gas gauge, and a light that comes on when you’re low on gas, but quite a few cars come with “Distance to Empty” displays, and people still manage to run out of gas! It’s nice to know that technology doesn’t change some things. Like stupidity.


"The Traffic Cop"

Speaking of planning, I really think that all of you reading this should have a plan for what to say when a cop stops you. I really do, because, eventually, almost everyone will be pulled over for one reason or another. If you haven’t had the experience, don’t worry, you probably will. Here are a few ideas that I’ve come up with, to help break the ice at that awkward moment that occurs when a police officer taps on your window. If you play things right, you can turn an otherwise unpleasant experience into a worthwhile personal encounter, and have some harmless chuckles. And maybe a visit to the local Greybar Hotel.

Now, call me a psychic, or maybe a cynic, but I predict that the first thing the nice police officer will say will be something like, “May I see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?” I suggest you politely say, “Why certainly officer, I have them right here!” And then hand over the requested documents. It is extremely important at this point to be polite and cooperative, but say nothing else until the cop says something to you. This allows some tension to build, and gives more impact to your response to the next question, which is sure to be (all together now), "Do you know why I stopped you?” Here is where you get to have a little harmless fun at the officer’s expense. Pick the response that most closely matches your own personal situation, and have at it!

Cop: “Do you know why I stopped you?”

What to say if you are a/an:

Hot Chick: “Hoping to get lucky?”
Bakery Truck Driver: “Running low on doughnuts?”
Schizophrenic: “Yes I do. No I don’t!”
Musician: “No, but if you hum a few bars, I think I can pick it up.”
Secret Agent: “Yes. But if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”
Ignoramus (Politically Correct version of “Retard”): “Uhh… I dunno.”
Apathetic Loser: “I don’t care.”
Off-Duty Police Officer: “Will you quit screwing around, Bob?”
Efficiency Expert: “No, but I have a check-list if that will help speed things along.”
Private Detective: “I haven’t got a clue.”
Clint Eastwood Fan: “Do you feel lucky, punk?”
Elvis Pressley fan: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!”
Comedian: “The same reason a dog licks his balls?”
Taxi Driver: “You’re lost, and you need directions to Dunkin’ Donuts?”
Lawyer: “Objection! Calls for speculation on facts not in evidence!”
Buddhist Monk: “You seek the path of true enlightenment?”
Priest: “You want an impromptu confession?”
Dog: “Same reason I lick my nuts?”
Black man: “Racial profiling?”
White man: “Beats me. I’m white!”

The look on the officer’s face should provide you with plenty of laughs, making the hours you spend waiting to make bail go by so much quicker!

Until we meet again...

(A version of this column first appeared in the July 24, 2003 edition of "Fast Lane Magazine," a Phoenix, Arizona biweekly entertainment magazine, under the byline of 'Matt "The Cab Guy" Kelly.')

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