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J.C. Milliman
No good deed...

    If you're reading this, then you, at least, survived ole Isabel. But speaking of, I thought I'd better get a few facts straight before the tall tales, told by the Ford crowd (who never let the facts get in the way of an opportunity to bash us superior MOPAR dudes), get out of hand. What the heck, it may be too late already, who knows?

    What you may have heard by now, and what the truth is are probably not very close. The Ford crowd has a well-oiled propaganda machine that's well versed in distorting the truth to suit itself. Be that as it may.

    The fact is yes, my Dodge got stuck and a Ford happened to be the one to pull us out. That I will readily admit to, painful as it may be. But like a fine piece of poetry, or a good suspense novel, let's peel back the layers to reveal the rest of the story.

    In preparation for Hurricane Isabel, a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless, so let's just refer to him as Yoda) asked me to help him move some hay before Isabel sent it all to West Virginia via aerial express. He could have asked his Ford buddies but he didn't. He knew that when the chips were down, the only place to turn to was a Cummins-equipped compadre. Me.

    So there it is. Fact One -- DA, oops, I mean Yoda, was in a jam so he called on a MOPAR to get his gluteus maximus out of a sling. Done. In fact, I was glad to do it, even if it weren't yet another opportunity to showcase the mighty Cummins' vast superiority over anything with a blue oval. Call it a rare moment of rational thinking from an otherwise addled brain. Whatever -- at least he knew who to call.

    Moving on.

    To get the hay, we traveled to the farm of one of his fellow Ford boys. We'll call him Richard. Richard could have delivered DA's, oops I mean Yoda's, hay but did not. Why not? Hint: Richard also has an F-350. Once again, they call on a MOPAR to get the job done.

    At this point, you might think the odds aren't quite fair here. You're right! Two Ford boys ganging up against one MOPAR man ... Yep, the odds are still lopsidedly in my favor -- we need about four or five more Fords in the barnyard to even things out. But the Ford contingent isn't interested in playing fair, see? Oh noooo.

    We hooked onto the wagons of 120 stacked hay bales and towed them to Yoda's hacienda. Yoda's F-350 taking about 45 minutes and my Cummins-powered Dodge 3500 taking about 15 minutes. Why? The Dodge didn't have to stop at every three- percent grade to shift into low range and four-wheel drive to keep from putzing out.

    Four-wheel drive? Did somebody say FOUR-WHEEL DRIVE?? Aha! More about that in a moment. Remember, this whole evolution is taking place because of my good nature -- a friend in need, etc. My payback? Cheating and foul LIES. I get ahead of myself. Sorry.

    Unloading the hay is no big deal. If you've grown up on a farm, there are some things that are as natural and regular as death, bowl movements and dawn. (Ever notice how Fords and bowl movements just seem to go together, pardon the pun?) Throwing and stacking hay is one of them. It's like brushing your teeth -- you don't brag about it even if you do it well. We got the hay stacked and it came time to return Richard's wagons.

    Oh yeah, Richard's wagons -- remember them? They were the ones HIS Ford obviously couldn't deliver so they had to call in a Cummins to get the job done. Anyway, we took the wagons back. And that's where things took a turn for the ugly.

    Like a certain political party in a certain nameless state that couldn't abide the truth of the outcome, Richard and DA (Oops, I mean Yoda -- dang, I hate it when I do that) conspired to artificially alter the outcome. What was otherwise a foregone conclusion (come come, dear reader -- do I have to lead you by the hand? Will you be completely taken in by their baseless propaganda and classless and frothy diatribe?) was to them anathema.

    To park the wagons, Richard selected a swampy mud pit of a lot. Yoda took the lead and appropriated the one firm path through the mire for himself, leaving the amphibious scenic route through Water World for me. Have I mentioned that he's driving a four-wheel drive truck and I am not? That I am driving a dually and he is not? They KNEW! They knew what would happen and set me up, bigger than Stuttgart!

    I was forced into the mud with a truck with crappy off-road traction. They rigged it so I would end the day chained to a Ford. Oh can there be greater ignominy? I extended the hand of friendship and by it, I was lead into perdition.

    Now you know the truth behind their ill-gotten "victory." All they have truly won is a momentary basking in a false glory -- gotten at the expense of another, who, in his innocent naiveté, had laid down his very honor to help another. And for what? To be shackled in chains and dragged (backwards, even!) through the mud. That's what I get for throwing everything aside, and on my anniversary even, to help a Shipmate.

    Fear not. Pyrric victories are still victories. Upon leaving Richard's, I punched it through the mud a little and gave one of his prized pulling tractors a mud bath not even Isabel will find easy to wash off.

    Gotta love a duallie.