My Summer Vacation by Chad Robuckle

pig silo

As Carlton swung his bag over his shoulder and walked towards the house, I really thought this was going to be the best summer ever.

I could barely contain my glee as I wished him luck and reminded him not to pull out his money until he saw the actual bag of weed. I was sure I was going to crack up and start laughing, but luckily, he was too nervous to notice.

I gave him a few minutes and then took the other walkie talkie out of my own bag and put it to my mouth.

“Officer Jenkins, Officer Jenkins, come in. Can you hear me, Officer Jenkins? Any movement over on 183 Cherry Street?” I asked, in my best policeman-sounding voice. I thought I could almost detect the sound of my own voice coming through the walkie talkie he hadn’t seen me sneak into his bag, echoing out the window of the small house. Those suckers were loud!

Then, all hell broke loose. I heard lots of yelling. Then some gunfire. Then more yelling.

What happened after that, I’m not sure, because I got the hell out of there! And fast!

You’ve never felt pain like the pain you get from running 3 miles through the woods while trying to hold in your hysterical laughter. Not to mention your sides! Seriously, that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!

Stop number one: the quarry. This is what I tell people over and over; it pays not to use your own stuff. Go out, spend ten bucks on a new bag. Then when some hunter finds it in the woods, nobody sees it on TV and goes, “Hey, that’s Chad Robuckle’s backpack!”

The bag, the walkie talkie, the three hundred dollars in counterfeit bills, all of it went in the drink.

Then I made a quick stop, changed into my baseball clothes and it was off to the park for my perfect alibi.

The only problem is, as I got there, the parents were hustling their kids away, because there was a standoff and now the town was on lockdown.


Lucky for me, my parents don’t give a damn and didn’t answer the phone when the police alert robo-called them.

I strolled home, thinking I was actually going to pull this off, but apparently I didn’t account for the fact that Carlton is a little pussy who sings like a bird.

I stopped quick and darted behind a bush when I saw the black and white in front of my house.

With my phony cash gone, a trip to TJ was out of the question. I dug down deep in my rucksack of acting tools, just like Mr. Johnnsen had told us to do. That’s not a real rucksack, it’s some fruity, imaginary actor thing or something.

I strolled onto the scene, the picture of confused innocence.

“What’s going on, Mom and Dad? They told us we had to go home and our baseball game was cancelled?”

My dad’s face lit up with anger. I guess he wasn’t buying it. I only found out later that he had been in a hot tub with “Aunt Carol” when he got the news that the cops were out in front of the house. Since he usually keeps a few keys of coke in the house, the last thing he wants is the fuzz snooping around, so he had to cut his little party short and head home.

I guess the big “standoff” wasn’t so much a “standoff” as it was “Carlton getting shot in the ass by some teenage drug dealer-wannabes with their dad’s gun before everybody started crying and pissing their pants from fear.”

Of course, once crybaby Carlton and his newly-dissected sphincter mentioned my name, the cops put two and two together and high-tailed it over to Robuckle Manor.

And here I am. It’s barely the middle of June and I’m stuck in B.F.E. with my fucking grandmother on her stupid farm, looking at ten weeks of no internet, no cable, not even any goddam air conditioning!

But, on the plus side, there is a silo full of pig manure and what appears to be Abraham Lincoln’s boyhood radio. Great.

So I paid one of the migrants to write this out for me as I dictated, so don’t blame me if it’s rife with spelling and grammatical errors. Then I mailed it off to Ol’ Hollywood (un)Phunny so he could put it up on his blog and then six people could read it.

So that’s it. My summer is over. Why does this shit always happen to me?

Wait a minute. Shit… pig shit… That’s explosive, right? At the least, it’s gotta be flammable, no? Hmm… Maybe I should send ol’ Carlton a “care” package.


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