TRUCK DRIVERS ARE IDIOTS

And now I must vent.

Let this be known to all throughout this universe, throughout history, and throughout all time... The Leeman HATES truck drivers.

This hatred is not irrational. This hatared is not haphazard. This hatred has been throughly nutured and cultivated through many days and mainly nights of dealing with their sorry, stupid asses.

Not all truck drivers are bad. Some of them are pretty good at what they do. A few are actually smart. Smart enough to bathe. But they are few and far between. Most truck drivers are idiots.

If you are a truck driver, and you haul produce loads, there's something wrong with you. Chances are, you're a f-ing idiot. Society dropped you on your head and it didn't do anything but crack the linoleum on the floor. Your retardation is the stuff of legend. Yogi Bear could outthink you and he is a cartoon. And come to think of it, so are you. An angry, stupid, smelly, hungry little cartoon. You are a life reject. The Leeman hates you.

You want examples on how dumb truck drivers can be? I got 'em. Hell, I'm writing a book. Portions of that book could very well appear on THE LEEBO SHOW, too. It's rich with comedic frustration, just like me dealing with truck drivers.

But let's just take yesterday for a good example.

Not only did I have drivers coming in to pick up blueberries with their refrigeration units not on, but the following actually happened.

Truck driver comes in, says he has a load to pick up.

"What order are you picking up?" I ask.

"Blueberries," he says.

Well, the day's off to a fine start.

"Your order, dude," I tell him. "What order number are you picking up? What's your pickup number?"

He proceeds to tell me he doesn't have a pickup number.

Sigh.

"Can't load your truck without an pickup number, dude, go call The Dispatcher and get your pickup number, " I tell him.

So the driver goes to his truck and I go back to whatever it is I do.

My phone rings. Hello?

It's the truck driver. "Yeah, I'm callin' to get my pickup number."

I look out the window and he's standing there on the phone. With me. Just outside my office window.

I decide to screw with him a little. "OK, let me just ask you...we've been trying to get ahold of you all day... where are you? ... are you at the pickup?"

"Yeah."

"At the farm."

"Yeah. I'm at the farm. The guy in the office says I need a pickup number. The sorry son of a bitch."

"OK," I say. "I need you to do something for me.....turn around and look in the Shipping Office window."

He turns around and looks. I wave to him with the phone in my ear.

"I'm not the sorry son of a bitch you have to GET THE NUMBER FROM, you jackass," I tell him. "I'm the sorry son of a bitch YOU HAVE TO GET THE NUMBER TO." I'm waving at him the whole time I'm saying this.

His eyes bug out of his head.

"Oh. uh.... sorry..." he says.

One day I am going to decide that I want truck drivers out of my life FOREVER.

And that... is going to be one interesting day.