The next Characters Welcome star is Chuckie. This guy is somewhat of a legend, because of his uniqueness, his loyalty toward friends, and his quirky sense of humor. He was also a little rough around the edges, what my mother politely called “wild”.
Chuckie was not impressed by material things, other than his motorcycle. Every other week he would blast into the parking lot of the local club with a new fender flapper, held together with duct tape, backfiring, smoking, coughing and wheezing. It was understood that the old one had either blown up or had been abandoned after another nasty crash.
One hot summer afternoon, a friend of his who had just opened up a body shop was pondering what slogan would be appropriate for his sign. Chuckie was right there to help, as always. After several mind expanding Budweiser’s Chuckie was sick and tired of the wrangling over a damn slogan. He was ready to head on down to the club. He disappeared for a few minutes, only to reappear and say, “Done! Let’s go.” We walked out front to see written on a cardboard sign, “You *#@! It Up, We Fix It Up”. Good enough for Chuckie.
PETA would not have words of praise for Chuckie, because although he really liked cats, he was a little hard on them. He once interrupted his girlfriend’s long drawn out cat bath time, because apparently her syrupy sweet coaxing and pleading was irritating him. He grabbed the hissing animal and put it in a plastic trash can. He then squirted in some dish soap, added a jet stream of water with a garden hose and swished kitty around for a few minutes. Voila! Clean kitty.
Chuckie stopped by the ex’s house one fine day with a friend to show us another newly acquired truck. I asked him what was on his running board and he said, “Dunno. Looks like a dead woodchuck.” I told him he should splay it on his hood, you know, like a deer trophy during hunting season.
That jogged his wandering mind and he asked us if we had heard his new bird call CD. Skippy rolled his eyes when the ex stupidly said no, and before we knew it, we were blasted by blaring bird screeches, gobbles, and tweets. Skippy was the first to notice a battalion of rather large birds crossing the road heading toward our field. Astonished that the CD obviously worked, Chuckie, Skip and the ex sprang into action.
Shotguns were outlawed so close to domiciles and God knows we were all law-abiding citizens. However, big game hunters always have a back-up plan. Out came the bows and arrows, and the hunt was on. Three full grown men began thrashing around in the wilds of a field of cat’n nine tails shooting arrows at what they believed to be wild turkeys. I was the spotter. A dozen or so cars stopped to help spot, proving just how neighborly we are up here. Arrows were flying like Custer’s last stand and to this day, I do not know why one of the three didn’t get killed.
Bottom line, the turkeys won. All but one regrouped and skeedaddled back to where they came from, or so we thought. Chuckie splayed that one on his truck hood and off he and Skippy drove, prospects for dinner having been greatly improved. Later that night, the neighbor called and asked if we had seen any turkeys running around in our field. Turns out he had just purchased a dozen, and when he got home he could only account for three.
The ex told him they must have gone down the road to the animal park.
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