This is really all it comes down to. Anybody looking for a ride on the side of the road at any given moment is hoping to get their hands around my neck-beard to choke the life out of me. They might want my car, or my money, or even my Bob Seger box-set discretely hidden underneath a pile of dirty gym-socks in the backseat. Whatever it is they want, they’ll never get it. I break for nobody.
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I could be driving an empty bus with “Slasher Victim Retrieval Unit” written on the side of it and I still wouldn’t stop during this scenario. This is exactly why I installed that batmobile turbo-thruster last Spring. The button that activates it reads “Hitchhiker” and it was worth every penny.
This scene also makes my list titled 10 Reasons to Never Trust Men in Santa Suits, but that’s for another time. I don’t care how drunk and festive I’m feeling while driving around during the holiday season, the only way I’m ever going to stop to pick up a creepy asshole dressed like this is if he impales me with Rudolph’s antlers by throwing him through my windshield and I bleed out. Even then, I would have an OnStar operator press the self destruct button before he got to my door. Yes, I have that option.
What the hell do you do when some old hitchhiker man tries to go down on you while driving a car? You can’t kill him (see above), you can’t close your eyes and pretend it’s your favorite hooker, and, most importantly, you can’t let it happen. See the type of situations I avoid because of movies? it’s not just me either, my family has also benefited from this list too, because…
Say I do pick up some random slug after a long night of slapping myself to stay awake. Then say this chatty bitch starts shooting his mouth off about how Kobe Bryant is the greatest basketball that ever lived and other nonsensical random bullshit. I’ve killed for less so I reach over and rip the guy’s larynx out (in honor of Swayze) and dump him at the next bend. This film teaches me all hitchhikers are un-killable so now I have to deal with an undead Laker fan for the remainder of my road trip. I’d rather turn my air-bags off and slam into the bottom of a canyon.
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I don’t know exactly where Bat Country is but fuck me if I’m ever going to stop there. I don’t care if there is an albino Peter Parker looking for a lift. In fact, at the very top of my long list of people to never pick up – no matter what the circumstances, albino Peter Parkers are just below Men in Hockey Masks and Man-Bear-Pigs.
How am I supposed to know whether or not the bloody chick in the sundress has a gun hidden up her vag? Chances are pretty good she doesn’t but those odds aren’t going to make me clear a space for her in the backseat. And how am I going to explain the brain fragments in the child-seat to my wife? “It was the bloody chick in the sundress, honey.” Fuck that.
This is why I don’t talk to anybody at my workplace (or basically anywhere outside of my home). One minute, John Smith wants me to go golfing on the weekend – the next minute, I have cock in my face. It’s this type of random shit that happens in life that movies have taught me will most definitely rain down on me in a hail of uncomfortable fireballs. Seven Minute Abs is still a brilliant idea though.
Show me the hot stud that rattled your ass-crack for three hours straight last night in a relentless bout of stinky sex and I’ll show you the guy paying for a bus ticket to Far-as-Fucking-Possible with your wallet the next morning. This is obviously why I’ve never banged Brad Pitt.
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Some guys fantasize about shit like this. I stare straight ahead and slam on the gas. Especially when the hot bitch is dressed like a cracked-out Willy Wonka pimp. FACT: Hot bitches’ cars never break down. FACT: All hot bitches have cell phones. Call somebody who cares. FACT: You should never pick up somebody with the word “Zombie” in their name. These are pretty straight forward, people. You’ll thank me later, when you’re not dead.