A conversation with John Goodman

The following is a conversation I had with John Goodman. Though totally unverified by John and his representatives, I can assure you that this occurred IRL! It all happened one day when I was hitchhiking from New Orleans to Atlanta. John picked me up on the side of the road.

John: Hop on in.

Me: Thanks.

John: Where you headed?

Me: Atlanta.

John: You mean Black Hollywood, right?

Me: Where else?

John: Hot damn. Great fucking city.

Me: (Nodding) (Silence)

John: (Silence) (Picks donuts out of back seat and starts to eat it)

Me: So...how far can you take me?

John: (chokes on doughnut)

Me: Oh my god! Dude! Are you okay?!

(The car begins to swerve with John's increasingly violent choking. I strike his back a number of times in an attempt to dislodge the doughnut piece. John vomits all over the dashboard and expels the doughnut.)

John: (slaps his hand down on the puke covered dash) Woooooo! Now that right there is what my daddy called the old "Goodman car wash." And I ain't talking about by biological pappy either.

Me: Wait, did you just reveal to me that you are, in fact, John Goodman, the actor, and that you have some sort of daddy fetish?

John: You're darn tootin'! I like to treat the world like it's an AOL chat room. No faces, no names, and no way in hell am I going to spare you any details of my sexual depravities. So you just better buckle up and enjoy the ride, Mr....Mr. what's your name anyway?

Me: First off, I both see your face and know your name. Secondly, my name is Corey.

John: Well shoot, I meant to give you my screen name, not my real name, Corey. Give me a second here.

(John proceeds to pull out a pen and piece of paper and write his screen name down on it. He hands me the slip.)

Me: Wow. 420DogTurdSmoker69 That's a mouthful.

John: You should say that while smoking on a meaty dog turd! Hehehehehehe. But seriously, I'm proud of that screen name. You have no idea how fast the numbers 420 and 69 go.

Me: Tell me more, John Goodman.

John: Well, in this newfangled day and age when you need a username for every goddamn website you sign up for, you tend to want to get the prime real estate. You know, getting that really cool username that let's everyone else know you're top dog. Like PrimeRealEstate69 or 420Top69Dog. Problem is every Bo and Cletus worth their weight in ass pennies wants to have some permutation of CoolGuy42069. Them numbers get snatched up real quick. I'm more nervous than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs when I sign up for a new username. You ain't a man if you don't got them numbers, son.

Me: I see. So John....I mean 420DogTurdSmoker69, now that you have totally alienated me with your weird theories on internet username propriety, how about we move on to a more mundane subject?

John: Another stick in the mud. Y'all hitchhikers are as boring as cookies without Xanax.

Me: You mean, you've done this before?

John: All the time. Hell, I'm supposed to be on set right now for a new movie I'm doing called Fire Under the Magnolia Bush, a Southern Gothic, Steampunk romance set in the Reconstruction era.

Me: Isn't it a magnolia tree?

John: Listen, son, I ain't one to care much for particulars. Furthermore, anytime you can say the word "bush" you go for it. That's why I always drink Busch beer, for the puns you see.

Me: Just crackin' open a big old Busch and diving right in.

John: That's the spirit! I had hoped you turn yourself around. Most of you hitchhiking fellas aren't much for repartee when I first pick you up, but by the time I'm done with you you're greased as hog...dialogically speaking of course.

Me: Well, I do feel remarkably at ease for sitting next to a man who has confessed his sexual proclivities and spoke about greasing me up like a pig within the first 10 minutes of me meeting him.

John: Don't flatter yourself, son. This sort of colloquy is just par for the course with old 420DogTurdSmoker69. Why just last week I picked up a woman, and told her how I am physically unable to get off without someone calling my a "shoebie."

Me: Like from Rocket Power?

John: Yep. I reckon it has something to do with the seminal vesicle resonating to the precise pitch and timbre of the word "shoebie." Of course, maybe that's just a hold over from my days as a traveling sexual anatomy instructor for teens.

Me: No way! My father was once a traveling sexual anatomy instructor for teens too!

(John slows down the car to almost a halt. He turns to me and with an expression so grave that his face literally turned into a graveyard, John stares me down. Reaching out his hand I recoil in horror and press myself up against the passenger side window. John grabs the door handle and opens the door.)

John: Get the fuck out!

Me: Joh...420DogTurdSmoker69, the car is still moving I..I..

John: Boy, if you don't get out of here right now...

(Just then a station wagon pulls in front of us. Two kids are sitting in the back, staring at 420DogTurdSmoker69 and me. They stick out their tongues and make what appear to be racially charged gestures about Asian Americans. John slams the door closed furiously and grips the wheel with both hands. He revs the engine and rams into the back of the station wagon. The children are terrified as the station wagon picks up speed and begins to pull away from us. John follows in pursuit.)

Me: What the fuck is going on?!

John: Let me tell you a story, son.

(420DogTurdSmoker69's eyes are glazed over. He no longer looks at me as he speaks.)

John: Far as I know, there are only two traveling sexual anatomy for teens instructors left alive. Me and your pappy. You know why that is?!

Me: Increasing education budgets?

John: Nope, it's because your pappy sold us all out.

(John reaches into the back and produces a bag. He sits it in his lap.)

John: It was back in 78. Business was good, and teens were giggling every time I said the word penis. However, the government was trying to hunt us down, but we were always a Perineum ahead. We thought we were invincible....

(The kids in the station wagon in front of us begin to pretend to play tiny violins. John growls and slams on the gas.)

John: Then the government started taking us out one by one. I didn't know what was happening at first, but when your father called me up and asked me where my next assignment was I put it all together. Son of a bitch is lucky I never saw him again.

Me: Yeah, my dad is kind of a dick. Sorry.

John: I ain't got time for apologies.

(John reaches into the bag on his lap and pulls out a rolled up poster. He unfolds it revealing an anatomical diagram of a female vagina. He presses the poster up against the windshield facing out and rolls down his window. John slams on the gas and closes the distance between us and the station wagon. He puts his left arm out the window and points to the poster.)

John: LABIA MINORA!!!!!

(The kids begin to laugh. John smiles and crashes into the back of the station wagon causing an explosion that engulfs us and the station wagon. Blood, steel, and flame bend together. Nothing in the wreckage is recognizable except for the laminated poster of a female vagina.)