Alright, for those of you that don’t know, I used to work at a car dealership
in the service department. When people would come and get their car fixed, it was my job to bring them back home
in a shitty soccer mom minivan. For the most part it was a decent job. I mean, if you don’t mind having
the same three conversations fifty fuckin’ times a day. “Boy, the weather sure is nice outside!” “Look at these goddamn gas prices!
They’re way too damn high!” “So do you just drive people around all day?” It gets a little old pretty damn quick! After a while when people would get in,
I’d just be like: “Before you say anything, yes, the weather
is nice outside, yes, the gas prices are bullshit and yes, all I do is drive people around all day,
because I make shitty life decisions!” Half the time people didn’t want to talk to me anyways. They were too pissed off
about their car being a broken pile of shit. I try to strike up a conversation: “So uh.. so what brings you in today?” “Uh, well, my car caught on fire,
because it’s a pile of shit and it killed my goddamn Cocker Spaniel!
That’s what brings me in today!” “Oh, okay! All right! Well,
I guess I’ll go fuck myself then, fantastic!” But pissed-off people I can handle. It was the crazy people
that would come in on a regular basis. Those were the ones you had to look out for. People, like Mr. Mortega,
who was a lunatic in every sense of the word. He’d roll into the shop with his Ford Explorer
covered in Donald Trump bumper stickers. They weren’t even clever stickers either,
they would just say, like: “Hillary’s A Bitch.” And you’d be like: “Okay, that’s the best you can do?
Not very clever there, Mr. Mortega, not very clever!” Now, this guy was a psychopath,
and it was pretty easy to see, because he would wear a button on his shirt
with an aborted fetus on it. Quite the conversation piece, I must say! He’d walk up to me:
“Yeah, I’m here to get my brakes fixed!” I’m staring down at his feet, trying not to make
eye contact with a goddamn dead fetus on his chest. But then I realise this guy is wearing crocs,
now I’m even more upset! And I don’t know where to fuckin’ avert my eyes to. So I’d have to drive this guy back to his house. And it was at this point
that he would try to say something racist to me. I don’t know what it is, he’d just look at me
and think: “Oh yeah, this guy must be a racist!” “I’m sure I can share my beliefs with him!” And I could always tell
when he was about to say some racist shit. He’d say something like: “Yeah, this neighbourhood
is not what it used to be, that’s for sure!” (“Oh boy, here we go”) “It’s all these fuckin’
Mexicans moving in, I tell you what.. (“WHOA!”) .. they need to build that wall for Christ’s sake!” “Hell, they should build two of them
while they’re at it, fuck those Canadians!” So needless to say, he was a real treat to deal with! But he wasn’t the only one. Because there was a guy, named Tom Plunkett. Who just so happened to look like a mall Santa Claus,
that maybe did a couple tours of Vietnam. And Tom Plunkett drove a big-ass cargo van,
which isn’t very strange. But all the goddamned stuffed animals
he kept inside of it, well, that was a bit perplexing! I don’t know, why a sixty-year-old man
would have a bunch of stuffed animals in there. But you know what? Just like Mr. Mortega’s baby button, I just
tried to pretend that they weren’t even there. But boy, would he get pissed,
if one of those stuffed animals were out of place! “Who the hell moved
my Magilla Gorilla stuffed animal?!” “It’s clearly four inches to the left!
What the hell happened?!” Now, I’d always had to take Tom Plunkett
to his mother’s house, which was about a 20-minute trip. I mean, it took five minutes to get there,
but for fifteen minutes we’d sit in front of her house, while he gave me a play by play of the Yahtzee game,
that him and his mom played the night before. “So then I went for my large straight,
but I couldn’t get that, so I had to use my chance!” “Damn! That’s great, Tom, that’s great!” “And my mom, she got her 35-point
bonus, so that put me in a pickle.” “Yeah, Tom, I’m sure it did!” “So then I roll four sixes
and I’m tempted to use my four of a kind!” “I’m sure you were, Tom, I’m sure!” “And then my mom rolls again,
and wouldn’t you know it..” *BANG* “She got another Yahtzee! What a bitch!” But Tom Plunkett was nothing,
compared to a customer, named Fred Arnold. And let me tell you, I’d listen to hours
and hours of Tom’s incoherent Yahtzee babble instead of dealing with Fred Arnold! You see, Fred Arnold
would bring his truck in to get fixed. And the only problem with that is
Fred Arnold LIVES in his truck! And when I say lives in his truck,
I mean he eats there, he sleeps there and most importantly, he SHITS there
when he has to, in a bucket! In this bucket right here! That’s right, I managed to take a picture
of one of the many-many times he came to visit. Doesn’t it look like Disney Land?
Put that shit on a post card, wish you were here! So on top of the truck being filled with garbage, sometimes there’d be a big ol’ bucket
of Fred Arnold’s shit riding shotgun! “Oh, cool, human shit! Boy, I’m sure
earning every cent of these 8 dollars an hour!” Now, Fred Arnold didn’t have a house
for me to take him to, since.. Well, we’re fixing his house! But he always had me take him to the bank. You see, Fred Arnold was independently wealthy.
He had a bunch of money! He chose to live in his truck just because..
Well, he wanted to live in a fuckin’ truck, I guess. Now, Fred Arnold never said a word to me,
when we’d go to the bank. Which is fine with me, I mean, what kind
of small talk are we gonna have? “So Fred, you shit in your own truck, huh?
That’s pretty neat!” “I mean, I shit in a toilet,
but different strokes for different folks.” But out of the dozen or so times,
that I’ve given my man a ride there was one occasion,
that he actually said something to me. And it caught me off-guard! He leans over and *clears his throat* (“Oh my God, he’s gonna say something!
What’s it gonna be?!”) (“Is he gonna tell me how he has so much money?
Or why he sleeps in his truck?!”) (“Or why he shits in buckets?
What is it, Fred?!”) *Clears his throat*
“These gas prices are ridiculous!” “Oh, God damn it, Fred!” https://brewstew.com Special Thanks To: Tiffany Teague, Brandon Armstrong,
James Ballew, Patrick Bowlin. Special Thanks To: [These wonderful people]
& All the other patrons! https://www.patreon.com/brewstew https://shop.makeship.com/collections/brewstewfilms