I get a call to go to Wallaby’s sports bar to pick somebody up about an hour after a dramatic football game ended in an overtime clutch kick, and staggering out the door comes Jabba the Drunk, quite possibly the largest human being I have ever seen. He is wearing a 5X Indianapolis Colts tee shirt that does not cover his immense girth, as I can see a giant roll of pasty white fat and a belly button that looks to be eight or fourteen inches deep bulging out below the hem of his shirt. He is visibly weaving, maybe from alcohol, or maybe from the burden of carrying around a spare three or four hundred pounds, maybe both… it is hard to tell. His shirt, sweatpants, mouth, hair, fingers, and several of his chins are covered in bleu cheese and wing sauce, and he is carrying five (count ’em, FIVE) of those large 12 inch by 12 inch styrofoam “to-go” boxes.
With great difficulty, he gets his gigantic bulk into the back seat of my car, and the whole taxi tilts a solid 25 or 30 degrees to the right. The suspension is notably straining under this load… like I just put an upright piano in the back seat. He gives me an address that is a good twenty dollar ride, but I wonder if the car is up to it. So we head down the road, and I swear, it feels like I am dragging a trailer.
So Jabba is back there, making rumbling, groaning, and gurgling sounds, and I am afraid he is going to puke. He’s half-passed out and mumbling shit I can’t understand, and I yell at him, “Hey, Jabba… you OK back there?”
And he replies, “Ahhhm ookay, man… ahhhhm doin’ good… but the Colts, not so much…”
“You aren’t going to puke, are ya…?”
“Nawwww, man… ahhhhm good… ::: gurgle ::: ahhhhm oookay… ”
I’m afraid he’s about to explode, and all I can picture in my head is the “Bring me a bucket” guy in Monty Python’s The Meaning Of Life. Judging by his size, if Vesuvius back there erupts, there will be six or eight gallons of chicken wing, bleu cheese, and Budweiser puke in my back seat… if I’m lucky…
He seems to pass out for a bit, and I lean on the gas a little… if Jabba explodes, I want him outta my car before it happens. I get him to his address and he comes to… a little bit groggy, but he pays me and then extricates himself from my taxi. He then bends over at the waist and reaches back into the car to get his styrofoam “to-go” boxes. He stands up straight, puts the boxes on the roof of my taxi, and his sweatpants fall down around his ankles. Unfortunately for me, Jabba had gone commando this day, and there, nestled in his thatch of curly pubes, in all its’ flaccid glory, was Little Jabba.
There are some things I don’t think I should have to see in my job, and somewhere near the top of that list is some drunken obese football fan’s dick. But there it is.
Jabba must have felt a cool draft down below… felt that something was amiss…. and realized that his pants were on the ground. He bent forward to pick up his sweats, and WHAPPP!, he smacked his head on the roof of my taxi. I mean HARD. It was LOUD. I was certain he left a dent in my roof. He keels over backwards and lands flat on his back in his driveway, motionless, pants around his ankles.
I yell at the guy, “Dude…? Hey! Dude! Are you OK?” He doesn’t respond, so I grab my flashlight and get out of the car. It takes a moment, but he comes back to consciousness. He is flailing around on the concrete like a turtle on his back, sweatpants still around his ankles.
I want outta here… getting a wasted, semi-nude fat man off the ground and back on his feet is not in my job description. Then I remember his food. I grab his five boxes of chow off the roof of the car and carry it up to his front door and place it on a wrought iron chair next to the door. I tell the guy, “Hey, Jabba… your food is up by the door… go get THE FOOD…”
The mention of THE FOOD seemed to help him get his shit together… he rolls over and struggled to his feet. Then my phone starts ringing… probably Jim, another driver with my company. I tell Jabba, “I gotta go… my phone is ringing… work is calling me… you gonna make it?”
“Ahhhhm good… ahhhhm oookay…” he says, and again bends down to pick up his pants and falls forward on his face in the grass.
“C’mon, Jabba… go get THE FOOD…” I say, and get back in my car. The last thing I saw was Jabba on all fours, his giant nekkid ass in the air, sweatpants still around his ankles, and crawling toward THE FOOD.