"Dad! The toilet lid was up and Jamie's tongue is blue again!" - Dewey, Malcom in the Middle

Pugsley prepares for his "undersea" adventure.

February has been the month of . . . difficulty at the Wilder Hacienda down in Houston. All the caballeros took their pay and went into town and shot up the place. All the dealings with things septic have been rough.

It started with the ants . . .

Shortly after we moved in, I went to bed. That is to say, I went to bed often, but I was speaking of a specific time. I generally say, “goodnight honey” before kissing The Mrs. and rolling over for slumber. That night, I said, “Ow. Ow. OW!” I looked down at the front part of whatever the newfangled term is for the part of your body where your foot meets your leg, and saw a little, tiny ant engaged in pumping as much formic acid as she could into me. (I say she, because mails don’t bite. I think. Go to Wikipedia if it’s bugging bothering you. I went back into the master bathroom (pretentious sounding, isn’t it? Do the other bathrooms have to report to the master before anyone pees?) and found the sisters of the little critter that so vigorously attempted to poison me. (Did the ant think it could eat me?)

Fire ants. In my bathroom.

Thus began the Great War of 2006 and 2007. I used every chemical shown by the Federal government not to make me grow a third eye in defeating the ants. I slaughtered them by the millions. They moved six feet under the concrete and began to build a new empire under the toilet.

Our house doesn’t have normal toilets. For whatever reason, every toilet in our house bolts to the wall. It’s like sitting on a Star Wars™ HoverToilet®, since none of the toilet-y parts go to the floor. I moved from the Battle of the Place Near the Sink to the Battle of the Under Toilet, and unleashed a weapon of mass ant destruction. As I bent down and began to spray, I noticed it.

The Drip.

Not a big drip, just an eensy-weensy bit of dampness under the toilet.

So, after the ants surrendered and signed the Treaty of Antversailles, I turned my attention to the toilet.

I hate water. Fish do unimaginable things in it. I really hate water in my house. I really, really hate water being someplace it’s not supposed to be. Outside the toilet bowel definitely counts, except for dribbles during the first 36 or so years after potty training.

I went and bought a wax ring – that’s the doohickey that seals the toilet to the hole where stuff that goes down the toilet goes so your bathroom doesn’t smell like Ernest Borgnine’s underwear. I attached it. Eensy-weensy drip remains. Repeat this process six seven times, and, well, the result is The Mrs. begins to lose a bit of patience, though The Boy is highly amused.

I finally sat down and really thought about my repeated failure. Then I realized the problem: the previous installer had tried to hug the toilet into the dry wall, and thus whenever anyone placed their bottom on the toilet, well, it would move just a little and slowly compress the wax ring. I reasoned, consulted Wikitoiletpedia, and decided to install something for the toilet to rest against, namely nuts on the protruding bolts

Another trip to Home Despot, another purchase of stuff. I got the bolts and was confronted with a dilemma: If the bolts weren’t even, when I cranked ‘em down to put the toilet against the wall so my butt wouldn’t rock it and mess up the seal, well, if they weren’t nearly perfect I’d end up putting stress on the ceramic toilet, crack the fixture, and, given my luck, well, it would be The Mrs. falling down and hitting the bathroom floor as the toilet disintegrated into shards of porcelain. That would be a bad day. I got out a laser, made two plumb bobs out of dental floss and flat washers, and made every nut protrude exactly the same distance out. I’m sure a plumber knows a better trick involving grease, a pig, and a stopwatch to make sure every nut is exactly right, but we didn’t have a stopwatch.

The Mrs. went to bed, giving up as I made sure that the toilet was right.

I pushed it onto the bolts. Bolt one – in. Bolt two – in. Bolt three - in. Bolt four – well, lets not talk about that. Although the nuts were in a perfect plane, they were a wee bit too far out.

It doesn’t leak, but it’s not right. I’ll fix it this weekend. The Mrs. is of the opinion that I should call a plumber, and has been since day one.

No. I say no. I’ve taken the ants. I can get the toilet.

"When was the last time Barbara Streisand cleaned out your garage?" - Homer, The Simpsons

Perhaps I will never understand "art" since making a lifelike depiction of a bull is okay in my book, but making him a floating evil legless bull is not. Stupid artists.

Weekends seem shorter in Houston. Perhaps a part of that is that, having moved into a new different house, there’s never a shortage of things to do. Sadly, only rarely do they involve a chainsaw. Fortunately, they often involve beer.

Especially since the house was born when Reagan was president. And, not the second term.

Most of the house is really, really nice, especially the parts we could see when we bought the place. However, the septic system as been a nightmare, but, alas, we don’t live on Elm Street, so instead of being shredded by a man in a green and red Christmassy sort of sweater, well, this nightmare just keeps giving.

The concrete lid to one septic tank (there are . . . four!) was shattered in more pieces than Anna Nichole’s custody situation. They are somehow interconnected. Maybe. Let’s just say that the guys who do the work in replacing the lines are good at quoting dollar figures that start in the hundreds. Soon, if this keeps up, I’ll be a mere ten-aire instead of a happy hundredaire.

The Mrs. came outside while I was observing and/or haggling with the sewer guys. “The Boy has a temperature of 103ºF and Pugsley has a messy diaper. Do you even live here?”

The septic guys tried to leave (having accomplished nothing) and I was adamant that they at least pump a tank, for show if for no other reason. They promised they’d be back on Monday. It seems I have more money, and they want it.

After they left, the weekend was all mine. Being the weekend, I needed to venture out to purchase various things. I asked The Boy if he wanted to go. “No.”

“I’m going to Toys ‘r’ Us.”

“Let me get my shoes.”

We made our trip to Toys ‘r’ Us and got his brother, Pugsley, a nice toy box. That was nice, since we’d been using a cardboard box to story toys, and he was eating it. I imagine at least that there’s good fiber in a cardboard box.

I also took him to Home Despot, because every day I’m not working, I’m there buying some damn thing that’s necessary for making some repair that ensures our house doesn’t collapse in upon itself immediately. Today’s visit wasn’t based on emergency, but out of habit. I bought some light bulbs and slinked out. I just feel so empty if I don’t visit Home Despot once a weekend.

We got home, and I finally began the puttering that I had intended all along. The Mrs. was inside napping, and Pugsley was doing whatever it is he does when he’s in his crib and not eating. I have no idea what it is, but he’s quiet about it, so it suits me fine.

Part of the puttering included cleaning the garage. The Boy helped, primarily by being a constant source of mobility for small tasks. Yes, he knows where to get beer for me. Beyond that, he’s good at it.

The Boy didn’t feel well, but did manage to make one of the nicer comments of the day when I was attempting to rid the garage of the thousands of boxes that are still left over from our move. “It feels so empty in here now, Dad.”

Yes, empty like Paris Hilton’s soul. Or a clean garage.

"Soylent Green is peeeeeeople!" - Charlton Heston, Soylent Green

My Mom would be seriously hacked at me if I left these lights on.

Tonight I decided to write about the way that Houston is just a wee bit opulent.

“What’s opulent about it?” asked The Mrs. Good question. She’s always the one that nails me when I say, “ironic” and really mean, “dumb coincidence,” or “talented” and mean “Sean Penn.” Stupid Mrs.

“Okay,” I suavely replied, after looking up how to spell ‘suavely.’ “Wasteful.”

“How?” she challenged.

“They leave the lights on,” I said.

“Welcome to America. Have you been here long?” said The Mrs. Stupid Mrs.

Okay, okay. The Mrs. is right. It is something I’m used to seeing. I grew up around places where we had all that new-fangled electricity, and the town fathers saw fit to flaunt the community’s cash by leaving the traffic lights on at 3:30 AM.

My mother would have seriously killed me for that. I could not walk out of a room and leave a light on or else, in less time than it takes Britney Spears to shave off her hair and fire up a Marlboro, my mother’s voice would boom . . .

“Turn off that light, do you think we own the electric company?”

(For point of fact, my mother’s voice did boom. Sort of like Orson Welles. Or maybe Charlton Heston in Soylent Green when he said, “I ate what?”)

Me, I drive home from work and see that huge numbers of lights are on in the skyscrapers. I know that they’re not working, unless it’s Enron by Day/Strip Club by Night. (Perhaps if Enron had rented out its space at night to a strip club, they wouldn’t have run out of money. Those chicks haul in some mad cash. I heard about this one that made $88 million.)

No, those lights are on in those towers over endless rows of cube farms, the hapless cubical dwellers having gone home for the evening to graze. Yet, the towers are all aglow with the unhealthy gleam of fluorescent lighting, security cameras and lonely snack vending machines. It’s a waste.

As I drive home, the endless miles of freeways are lit as bright as noon with endless rows of streetlights. I decided to do an experiment to see if all of these streetlights were necessary, so I drove out into the country, away from the streetlights (by that time I was in Nebraska). I steadied myself as I passed the last light, my headlights cutting through the dark. Would I end up having 2600 pounds of steel and plastic wrapped around me like the gentle arms of a steel and plastic lover? Nay.

I survived. I guess that’s why cars have headlights. In Houston, however, we have endless rows of streetlights in case, oh, we forgot it was dark or something.

You might think I was a member of some sort of neo-luddite anarchist group dedicated to removing all traces of society and humanity from the earth. Or that I am Al Gore. I am not Al Gore, but then again, I’m not sure he is, either.

No. I’m cheap. I’m irritated that I’m paying tax dollars for electricity because the last car through forgot to turn off the lights.

So, I got out my trusty pellet gun and put out the lights.*

Mom would be proud. The Houston cops, too. This saves them more electricity for the Tasers.

*John Wilder does not own a pellet gun, stock in a pellet gun manufacturer, and is in fact allergic to Tasers.

"This week we have Winston Rothschild of Rothschild's Sewage and Septic Sucking Services." -Red Green, The Red Green Show

This lizard looks familiar . . . Howie Mandell? Britney Spears? Hmmmm.

Oh, yeah, septic problems are funny, funny just like an old lady falling down the stairs in a movie is funny. Sure, an old lady falling down the stairs is funny, as long as it’s a real old lady.

It started with a morning “whiff” of smell as I walked to the Wildermobile and prepared to head for a day at the salt mines. The whiff was not the pleasant sort of just clean out of the shower smell, unless your shower is connected to water lines in New Jersey.

The Mrs. says that I obsess about things. This one whiff was enough to make me obsess.

I get obsessed about how things could go wrong in my life and then remembering that it would be okay, like finding out that I got married one night in a drunken ceremony to Britney Spears, and wondering how I would every afford to pay for her underwear, then realizing that, heck, she’s probably never even owned any, so my finances would be intact.

In this case, my mind went down the thought that I would immediately have to pay for an entirely new septic system for my house. I did the numbers, and it was an astonishing amount, even more than Brad Pitt might spend on air fresheners to blot out the smell of Angelina Jolie. Oh, wait, maybe that was the whiff I first caught . . .

Anyhow, I called up the folks that pump septic systems. They arrived exactly on time, and began to probe my house like CSI: Houston for buried septic tanks, using three dimensional magnetic resonance satellite imagery. At least that’s what they charged me for.

It turns out that the septic system at the Wilder compound (a compound is more than one building, down in Texas) is more complex than the system used to determine the amount of hair gel that George Clooney must use to avoid looking like Don King. Apparently, there’s some way all drains connect to all of the four septic tanks, rather than just some of them.

As the Indiana Jones-style journey of discovery continued, the septic guys found that one of the lids to the tanks was cracked, and, was apparently a size only used in lower Prussia back when Otto Von Bismarck was more than just a tasty pastry. They’d have to order one special.

Turns out one of the tanks wasn’t even draining, well, to anywhere.

Further investigation with my next door neighbor, Gladys Kravitz, provides information that the former owner used to just discharge his raw sewage straight to the ditch, until the neighbors complained. Why they would complain about somebody else’s septic discharge running by their house is beyond me.

Gladys notices everything in the neighborhood, and had seen that someone had dug up a full third of our front yard, and proceeded to regale us with tales of sewage in the neighborhood over the last twenty years. It was as if the History Channel® had done a special on crap, and Gladys was the host.

Anyhow, the journey of discovery isn’t quite done. The septic guys will be back next week, and will be sucking the last of four tanks, and then using some sort of hydroblaster on at least one of them. I’m figuring I could have a really cool HD TV. Or, I could pee in my own house. I’m picking the second. From what I’ve seen of HD TV, well, the stars could have used better skin care when they were younger. When your head shows up sixteen times its normal size, everything shows. And, yes, I’m talking to you, Howie Mandell.

The Boy is excited. He was gone while they pumped the first few tanks, but he’ll be home when they pump out the other, what, dozen of them? He’s already gotten out his camera and microphone. He’ll save the sights, he’ll save the sounds. Shame he can’t figure out a way to save the smells . . .

Wait . . . maybe those are the jars I found in his room . . .

My astronaut application form, I didn't pass that though, I failed everything but the date of birth." - Navin, The Jerk

The Boy doesn't wear adult diapers, and hasn't driven a car off to Orlando recently. As far as I know . . .

The week in Houston has proved harrowing. Houston astronaut, Nutsy McHotpants decided to take astronauts from being 53rd childhood dream job to 101,125th, still some 101,100 places behind being a “pimp daddy.” Whatever that is.

Thankfully for Nutsy McHotpants, another tragedy unfolded in Houston, namely, Anna Nicole Smith (born in Houston, married in Houston, etc.) decided that she couldn’t “just say no” and left the mortal realm with an astonishing amount of media coverage. The best part of this coverage? It took Nutsy McHotpants right off the cover of the local papers. My thought? Who would most benefit from this? The Boy.

Oh, sure, you’d say that NASA might benefit the most from the news that took an alleged murder-plotting-tramp off the front page. But in reality, it was The Boy.

Being grounded, The Boy had been living in an existence that had mirrored that of Nutsy, except for the whole media coverage and (soon, I’d bet) divorce papers thing. Oh, and the imminent threat of losing his job. Yes, The Boy had ample motive to see that news that was “way super duper bigger” than his grounding showed up in the local papers to take the heat off of him.

In response to the dual Houston tragedy, The Mrs. took The Boy off his grounding. We were, as a family, crushed.

What, exactly, did The Boy do with this new-found freedom? Well, The Mrs. had him pull weeds in the jungle that surrounds our house. It was a pleasant 50ºF, so it was t-shirt and short weather. I ended up cutting enough hedge to power Wales for a year, if they had hedge-burning power plants. Heck, maybe the Canadians do have hedge-burning power plants, but nobody can read Canadian, so they forgot where to deliver the hedges.

The Boy and I worked, which is to say that I worked, and The Boy frittered the day away, jumping on a tiny trampoline and listening to music by hip new artists like the Rolling Stones and Fleetwood Mac. The Boy is so cutting edge.

Did I mention that he spent the rest of the time glued to the DIY network? His latest passion is bathroom and kitchen renovations (This Old House ranks but a distant third). He’s been wandering about the house, yammering that he’d love to rip the kitchen cabinets down and replace them, plus he’s pretty sure we’re needing new “task lighting,” whatever that is.

So, to answer the question, “What does The Boy do when he’s not grounded?” In this case, The Boy plans to renovate our house.

As long as he doesn’t want to be an astronaut.

"When the astronauts moved to my neighborhood, all the leaves fell off the trees." - Colby, Upright Citizen's Brigade

Your tax dollars at work. Yes, the astronauts have a Monster™ Truck®.


As we were sitting watching Monster™ Trucks®, little did I know that a tragedy was unfolding, and I was smack dab in the middle of it. Let me explain.

The Boy and I were watching the Monster™ Trucks® perform. I noticed that every few minutes an Air Force commercial would play on the JumboTron (almost as big as the TV’s they sell at Best Buy nowadays). I then noticed that as the Monster™ Trucks® would race, they put a bracket up. In the upper right hand corner of the brackets was the Air Force logo. Huh. The Air Force sponsors Monster™ Trucks®. I was in a small way perturbed that the Air Force would spend our tax dollars (or even the dollars that the government just prints up) on advertising.

I was mistaken.

The Air Force doesn’t sponsor only sponsor Monster™ Trucks®. They own a Monster™ Truck®. Really. The Truck® in question was the Air Force Afterburner©. Our military owns a Monster™ Truck®. Let me repeat that: Our military owns a Monster™ Truck®. Now, at last, the reason that the Soviet Empire floundered can be told. We won the all important Air-Force-Controlled-Monster™ Truck® gap. How the hell could Gorbachev compete with that? (And, how the hell does spellcheck have Gorbachev in the dictionary??)

Frankly, with the demise of the United Soviet Socialist Republic (not the Californian one, the Russian one) I thought that we could beat our Monster™ Trucks® into riding lawnmowers. Peace, dude. No. The United States still retains our Monster™ Truck® advantage – I’m thinking that this is so the Chinese don’t ride coal-fired Communist© Monster™ Trucks® right into Smalltown, USA. Heck, maybe we keep the thing to scare the Swiss. Never did trust the Swiss, what with their little red Transformer© knives.

Here’s where the whole unfolding tragedy thing fits in. I’m thinking that actually driving the Air Force Monster™ Truck® must be the best job in the whole military. That must be the job that that astronaut dude just got, and his spurned, insane x-girlfriend couldn’t take it.



Q: How long does it take to drive from Houston to Orlando?
A: Depends®

Does it look like she smells like pee?

The Mrs. commented last night, “I hope that no astronauts move into our neighborhood. Bring the damn property values down.




So, that’s how I fit into the whole unfolding alleged-nutty-psycho-cheating-mother-tramp-astronaut-boiling rabbit woman saga. I feel so dirty. Makes me want to take a long shower, but she’s out on bail now. I’ve seen psycho.

As I alluded to last time, the freestyle Monster™ Truck® competition was actually interesting. The Monster™ Trucks® did acrobatics that would make Paris Hilton blush, jumping off of 30’ high mounds of dirt and landing on all fours ready for action. Wait, isn’t that exactly what Paris does?



$200,000 of your tax dollars just sitting on dirt in a Houston stadium. Doesn't it make you feel warm and fuzzy inside?


The first bit of drama came when Air Force Afterburner© flipped, and the dashing young astronaut driver jumped up out of the steaming wreck and dashed up into the seats in the stadium. I must say, I’m not an alleged-nutty-psycho-cheating-mother-tramp-astronaut-boiling rabbit woman, but he certainly did look courageous in a “just wrecked a $200,000 piece of government property” way. Perhaps the designers of the Air Force Afterburner© did some work on the Mars missions . . . maybe they needed metric tires or something.


As you can see, the USAF can fly not only planes, but cars. That must put fear into the heart of whatever tinpot despot rules Vermont now. Stupid Vermont.

At 10:00 The Boy became very agitated. I pulled out my earplugs and listened to his voice over the roar of the hydrocarbon powered behemoths down below.

“Daddy, it’s 10:00 PM”

I looked at the clock. Indeed, The Boy was correct.

“Daddy, it’s supposed to be over at 10:00PM.”

I was puzzled. “The Boy, are you having fun? Do you want to go? Do you have an appointment with Stephen Hawking to discuss the postulate that the quantum instability at the event horizon of a black hole will lead to eventual mass loss and dissipation of the black hole resulting in the eventual entropy of the universe leading toward a thin smear of subatomic particles being the end state after 1X10^200 years? Assuming proton decay, I mean.”

“Respectively, Father, yes, no, and no. Stephen had to postpone.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Daddy, it’s supposed to be over at 10:00PM.”

Let’s just say The Boy is nothing if not punctual.

The Monster™ Trucks® continued their acrobatics for the next 38 minutes. One of them (Taz©) caught fire. There’s nothing like watching $200,000 go up in smoke, though that must be cheap compared to the cost to train a alleged-nutty-psycho-cheating-mother-tramp-astronaut-boiling rabbit woman astronaut.


Okay, I only paid $20.00 a seat, and I got fire. That's value. It could have been better if they had burned some money.













The eventual winner, Maximum Destruction©, flipped and spurted oil everywhere. Somewhere there’s an astronaut joke in that. I’m just not going there.

Anyhow, getting out of the stadium lasted almost as long as the show. The Mrs. talked to The Boy via cell, and The Boy had the longest conversation I’ve ever witnessed.

I used to hope The Boy would grow up to be an astronaut, but, heavens, who would want an astronaut in the neighborhood?

"Dieselhead. A man and a monster truck exchange brains?" - Peg Bundy, Married with Children

This caught my attention as we drove to the stadium. Is this a statue of two women playing catch with a newborn? In-a-propriate.

As noted earlier in these missives, I had attempted to take The Boy to see Monster™ Trucks®. Despite that fact that he had been grounded from television, snacks, and all non-essential breathing, the date was set. The Boy had gotten himself in trouble at school for teaching the other children that there was such a thing as non-Euclidian geometry. Say what you want about Euclid, but that man owns elementary schools.

Anyhow, I’d promised to take him to Monster™ Trucks®. I explained that to The Mrs. (who had imposed the grounding). Besides, I already had purchased the tickets (for something like $61.56 American dollars). The Mrs. relented, despite the fact that The Boy was in gulag-level grounding. We decided to use this as a lesson in “promises kept” and not the other lesson of “daddy doesn’t want to waste $61.56.”

The Boy and I had lived through the traffic jam last time, and by leaving, oh, an hour earlier we thought we could avoid all of that and get decent parking. I announced we’d leave at 5PM. From 1PM onwards that day, The Boy was glued to the clock, awaiting 5PM and our departure for Monster™ Trucks®. He was as obsessed with time as David Hasselhoff is concerned with, well, David Hasselhoff.

We got to Reliant© Stadium. We finally found the Will Call windows, and picked up actual tickets, after verification of my I.D., Visa card, and DNA. We made our way into the stadium, up a series of escalators and ramps that seemed to defy gravity. That’s when we found ourselves at the Club Level at Reliant® Stadium. If you’ve never been at the Club Level, well, it’s like you were in your kitchen. If you had a nice kitchen. That had a bar in it. With leather furniture. And, (interestingly) a guy who would put all the bacon and cheese and chili that you could want on your burger. Except the guy who puts the toppings on is 16, nearly in tears, and speaks English in such a broken fashion I cannot for all my attention understand but every third word he says. What do you say to a guy like that? Me, I consoled him by saying, “yeah, more bacon. Shake it off. More cheese. Yup, more. Is that chili hot? More. Umm, what was your problem again? Yeah, whatever. Where’s the mayo?”

The Club Level at Reliant Stadium. Burgers good, beer good, sobbing level acceptable.

The Boy and I ate in luxury, with the sobbing of the burger-topping guy serving as subtle background music. As far as I was concerned, we could leave right now. Yeah, I’d paid $12.00 for a burger, but, dang, it had all the bacon, chili and cheese that any human could ever ask for. Plus, the waffle fries had Parmesan and some sort of really good garlic spice. Did I mention that they had ketchup on tap? Oh, and they had beer.

Anyhow, we decided we would go and watch the Monster™ Trucks®. We made our way down to our seats, which were nice and softly padded. The Boy and I had foamy earplugs. All that was missing was the Monster® Trucks™. They finally showed up, late, after a rendition of “Proud to be an American,” by Lee Greenwood’s taped voice (which made everyone stand up – did I miss the point in time when that became the national anthem?) and the Star Spangled Banner done by some dude playing a guitar and channeling the ghost of Jimi Hendrix’ cousin. Then, prior to the show, Ronald McDonald showed up in a giant red shoe car (I’m not making this up) and, in general, sounded like a Soprano’s style gangster in clown makeup when they interviewed him.

Yes. They interviewed Ronald McDonald.

Oh, sure, it would have been interesting if they’d asked his views on capital gains tax, or the recent congressional elections, but they asked him softball questions (The Mrs. demanded to know the questions. I refused to tell her, but, you, Internet, are special. They asked if he was excited to be there. If he liked Monster® Trucks™. Stupid clown.

Finally, the trucks square off. Yawn.

The Monster® Trucks™ finally made their arrival. After an appropriate display of horsepower, they started racing. Yes. Monster® Trucks™ raced. It was, at first, fascinating. Then, I realized that this was nearly as interesting as watching battleships race. Yes, these were big trucks, and nimble for their size, but, really, what about this couldn’t I see at a red light in downtown Houston as the Hummer H2 driven by the secretary faced off against the Ford 350 4x4 Crew Cab driven by the mail guy?

Monster® Truck™ racing is boring. Really loud, but boring. In matter of presentation, it was like watching WWF WWE wrestling – you know it’s not really real, and the rules are mainly for show, but it lacks the personality of two blustering, steroid-enhanced, sweaty men yelling at each other. I know, I know, that’s not exactly Shakespeare either, but at least it has some interaction. It’s much more interesting than the Scarlet Bandit taking on the Iron Outlaw. The difference between the two Trucks™? The paint job.

Monster® Trucks™ are all about the fuel and fire breathing machines squaring off against one another. The drivers are merely an afterthought. I sat and watched The Boy. Was he enjoying this?

Well, let’s just say that that the “freestyle Monster® Truck™” competition was a lot more interesting.

Next: Fire, Smoke, Government Waste, Big Trucks doing Amazing Things, and Punctuality and the Punk