C.B. Commando

December 18, 2009

BEING a pest in a chat room and terrorizing messageboards is nothing new. Back in the day people got crazy on CB radio. The first time I saw the potential pest possibilities was from a friend’s little brother. Jonathon was about 13 and wore a dookie gold figgaro necklace purchased by the inch with the gold beginning to wear off. He wore Drakker Noir and pronounced it Jacard. He was sure he was going to pick up older chicks amongst the CB Dirtirati that dominated the single channel bands in Canonsburg, Pa.

I dusted off my dad’s old CB that had been in the basement for several years from a truck he drove when I was growing up that was long gone. I added a transformer and a plug so that it could use a wall outlet and got a cheap antenna from Rat Shack. The few times I was on, I had been cordial and mostly listened. A few weeks later and I met up with about half a dozen of this crue… what a cast of miscreants and creeps! These were the types of dudes who suped up Chevy Citations, turning them into muscle cars. None of them were volunteer fireman but for some reason half of them had light bars on lifted red pickups with giant antennas. There were chicks for Jonathan all right – the type of chick that hangs out with a guy who supes up a Pinto or adds light bars to their trucks and pretend to be fireman. Up to this point I didn’t know who most of these people were and so I used to just mildly annoy and break balls a little bit but after this meeting, I knew I had several new butts to future jokes.

I started by misrepresenting myself to passing truckers by pretending to be a woman looking for some “hot trucker meat.” I would lead them off the interstate and send them to either the local McDonalds parking lot or the Senior High school parking lot and they’d wait around for the underage girl that never showed up. A few of them caught on. Also, enough truckers got burned that when I would try this, random truckers would drop in – “Breaker, that ain’t a woman, it’s some faggot…”

MY man Nick started the CBGCB war when he fired the opening salvo on a creepy methhead Canonsburg mom asking if there was anyone who would talk to her 8 year old son, Robo Cop.

Nick said, “I will – go on, breaker.” In his best of a worst southern drawl.

The kid got on and said “Hi” in a shaky, timid voice. Nick replied “Robo Cop – I wanna eat yer brain!”

His mom freaked out. Nick opened the mic and started in, asking why she would put her kid on the air to talk to strangers, who were no doubt weirdos because they were hanging out on the CB and talking to an 8 year old at four in the afternoon. Scott, a tall, lanky dork who was a few years older than me got on and dropped my name. I grabbed the mic and responded, “Actually it wasn’t – it was Brice.” Brice was this lonesome loser who was our Stewart (Beavis and Butthead); our Corey and Trevor (Trailer Park Boys). Whenever the shit went sideways – whenever something smelled rotten in Denmark, it was laid at Brice’s feet.

Scott starts in again, he kept saying my name and when he finally stopped, I get on and said his full name, along with all of the Canonsburg CB junkies names, over and over.

“Scott – big dork who works at Giant Eagle, Dave – fake fireman with a crew of ugly chicks.”

He tried to spook me by invoking a federal agency , “I’m reporting this to the FCC – they are gonna hear you on here and it will be big trouble!”

“For what?” I asked.

“For interfering with communications – that’s illegal!”

I started to laugh and continued as I responded.

“Yeah, I’m interfering with dorks talking to each other from the Canon Mac Senior High parking lot to the McDonalds parking lot across town. You really think they care about you guys? You’re idiots talking on a CB. In Canonsburg.”

Radio silence.

SHORTLY thereafter my parents bought an additional car, a red Pontiac sedan that had a CB built into the radio. This car was a few years old and so was sold at a time right before the prevalence of bag cell phones. For those not old enough to know, cell phones used to be carried around in a bag about the size of a bowling ball and about half the weight of one.

We were now mobile and no longer limited to terrorizing Canonsburg’s CB clique. We took our comedy on the road to towns like Washington, PA. There we found a curious ole redneck going by the handle Wild Turkey. Initially, I pretended to be various CB creeps from Canonsburg; using their handles as I insulted and challenged him and his boys to fights. He and his buddy were able to figure out that we were not in Canonsburg. They could tell by the ‘pounds’ of our signal which is the strength and clarity.

That is when I claimed to be this guy named Tony. Tony was a punk rock Morrissey looking kid that lived in Washington and had a tendency to get drunk and pick fights with entire groups of people. I would threaten a fight and then a lawsuit; my ‘dad’ the high-profile attorney who would get me out of anything and sue Wild Turkey and his boys if they touched me were going to fuck up his world. We were going to burn down his trailer and shit in his truck bed. I acted drunk as I fought with him nearly every weekend for a month. At some point, he told me that he knew that I was hurting and that I was just getting drunk and fighting with him to ease the pain. I played into this and pretended to cry. Wild Turkey told me that I could hit him up whenever I needed to talk. I was kind of touched that this guy was out there and willing to help a young, troubled, drunk high school student looking for a fight. After that, I only checked in periodically and showered him with insults and profanities. He would always tell his CB pals, “That’s Tony – he’s a troubled young man, just let him go – he needs to vent. Ignore him and he’ll stop.” Suffice to say, it was dead air no matter what I said. I moved on to new targets.

ONE of the more fun things to do was mess with truckers on the interstates while actually driving along with them. There was a level of risk in getting caught and maybe crushed by some deranged trucker. guerilla unit shit way before 50 Cent. There are a few really memorable incidents involving truckers. One of my favorite skits was to turn channel 19, the trucker channel, into Radio BLAK.

“Channel 19 is now BLAK, The Black Muslim Network. All you White Devils – Get off it!” I used my best Farrakhan diction and breathing. I would then hand the mic to John who would read passages from a Koran that was ‘appropriated’ from the Walden bookstore at the local mall. They would stomp all over us with their more powerful radios calling us “Mud Ducks” and “Dummies”. We would respond in turn, calling them “Gear Jammin’ Diesel Dicks” and “White Devils”. John would read more passages from the Koran. One time we got busted over in Ohio. We usually tried to keep the mic low so that it just looked like a car load of kids talking, but we were sloppy and got noticed, probably due to signal strength. We got id’ed a few miles before we hit the West Virginia border heading North toward Washington PA on Interstate 70. I remember my heart sinking in my chest as I heard some anonymous do-gooder out us, “They’re in a red Pontiac coming up on mile marker…” At that point, my ears started to ring. Every truck in the distance was a potential adversary and I tried to stay equidistant from the trucks ahead and the ones behind, trying to time patterns to make a breakout. This was some real life Red(neck) October shit. Two trucks seemed to really be gaining fast. Now that we were made, I kicked on the afterburners and made for PA and the back roads that I knew like the back of my hand. Backroads that no diesel dick pulling even an empty trailer would be able to navigate. We had to get under the radar. As you cross into West Virginia on 70 heading north, you hit a huge hill – hell, it’s a mountain side. The trucks ahead started to slow as we maintained speed with the diesel dummies fast on us. We slowed and they responded by slowing more. The road split into three lanes. It was obvious that the truck immediately ahead was listening and attempting to intervene by blocking us in. Luckily, we were split by the center lane and so I was able to put a group of cars between us and the hero that we rode up on. He was really on it and managed to get into the center lane but we were starting to crest the mountain and I was able to get more power and pull away. A few more trucks joined the chase as we crossed into PA. We continued to talk smack as one truck in particular gained and was within a few car lengths. I was able to maintain this distance for quite a few miles. I was now at 80 miles an hour and all I could see in my rear view mirror was truck.

Only one more mile to go until we hit the Taylorstown exit.

I manage to get him to follow me into the far left lane and then somehow weave between a few cars and in a semi controlled sweep across the passing lane, I steared over and onto the Taylorstown exit ramp. Luckily there was a lot of ass in the car and so while I drifted so slightly, the tires stayed on the road as I hit it at nearly 90 miles an hour and I was able to maintain control. I slammed on the brakes as I started sliding down the ramp. I can hear his Jake brake in the distance passing to our left down the highway as he overshot the exit. We all looked at each other and laughed our asses off.

AND then there was the time when I nearly got John run over. He was ahead of me in his AMC Spirit. With him were two chicks, Jamie and Cindy. Our destination was his house in Washington and from Canonsburg – about 14 miles – again on 79, this time heading south. At the time, John had a shaved head, which in those days was quite uncommon for black or white guys. Usually people thought he was a Nazi skinhead because they were making the talkshow rounds in the late 80s. He rolled up toward the back, left side of the trailer and began to pass. I broke in on the CB, “Breaker 1-9, at mile marker blah, blah”

“Go ‘head breaker.”

“Listen muthafucka, I’m a crazed skinhead in an AMC Spirit with two bitches coming up on you right now – you best let me pass if you know what’s good for you, breaker.”

In one sudden motion, the truck swerved toward John. I saw his hand fly up and dirt dust from his left tires as he dodged by riding into the berm and nearly going into the median. He took a couple of more swerves at John before powering away. I took a mental note of the truck and got off the exit to John’s house and pulled off at a little pizza shop with a pay phone. I promptly called 911 and reported the erratic, crazed trucker who was running cars off the road and was last seen headed west on 70.

John rolled up and was freaked out – “Did you see that crazy fucking trucker?!” I copped to it and we all laughed.

Well I did.

And he did eventually as well.

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