shanmonster | Mourning, Redneck Style

A great rural tragedy transpired not too long ago. Four men drowned, all within the same morning along a stretch of river. There were two accidents, in total. In the first, a drunk man fell overboard in a scant six feet of water and perished. In the other, a boat propeller caught on a line, upending the boat and sending its occupants flying into the currents. Two of the men had their necks broken on impact, and the third drowned outright.

None of the victims from either accident were wearing personal flotation devices. Now, in all likelihood, life jackets mightn't have saved the men with broken necks, but they would have spared the lives of the other two fellows.

The deaths were the most exciting course of events in years, and word quickly spread. Scores of pickup trucks and cars lined the river. My sister-in-law, upon seeing a veritable used car lot along the shore, assumed the new marina had finally been opened, and these vehicles heralded the presence of celebrants.

But no, it was just an enormous crowd of morbid sight-seers.

The first man to have died that day was a popular good ol' boy. He was renowned for his ability to squeal tires and lay down black doughnuts on asphalt. He once boasted he could lay tracks with anything wheeled, and could burn all the rubber off even a wheelbarrow. This admirable proclivity was celebrated by his friends.

In remembrance, his buddies burned rubber, turned doughnuts, and squealed their tires on a 1/4-mile stretch of road, blackening it so much it looked like it had just been chipsealed.

Now, that's what a wake's all about.