Hey compadre, I’ve seen you zipping around in the wee hours of 7:30pm on your slick, surf-style, cool as all heck motor scooter. I get it, you’re raging against the machine and cashing checks but also taking down names and a third thing as well. I’m not trying to be “the man” who’s here to crash your “buzz”, but I need you to get the heck out of my cul-de-sac.
Listen pal, I was a mean ol’ Hog Daddy when I was your age. I’ve heard the whispers of the streets, I’ve heard the call of the rubber, and I’ve felt the Daddy basket underneath me. But I don’t want any of your motor scooter antics in the wild west of Summit Circle! I’m the sheriff. The sheriff of this cul-de-sac. The cul-de-sac that’s also a wild west, but i keep it in check. Because I’m the sheriff of this cul-de-sac. You dig?
Just take a minute to check out my Tommy Bahama shirt and Ruben Studdard brand eye-glasses: I can hang, I’m hip to the jive, I know all about The Minions and kicking back rock and roll style. I threw up after drinking a beer once but that’s only because I don’t deal well with carbonation, but I still consider myself a party animal. So I’m just asking from one Hog Daddy to another that you take a chill pill, Wheelie Dan.
How am I supposed to explain to my kids that it’s their bedtime while a ridin’ rude Hog Daddy is spinning the rubber of his motor scooter? That’s not a discussion I’m ready to have with my 17-year-old twin sons Cody and Brody, plain and simple. Whether the sun is still up or not, 7:30pm is their bedtime. I still haven’t told them that a leather-clad, old school Hog Daddy lives right under their roof. Heck, I’ve spent more than one sleepless night wondering if they’ll ever find the collection of polaroids featuring Papa Hog Daddy on his ‘77 Vespa.
All I’m saying to is you better skidaddle, get out of my place of peace and solace. Don’t make me get tough and rough like I was back in my Hog Daddy days. I’ll get the ol’ scoot, short for scooter, out of storage and I’ll take you to the streets Daddy style. I’ll be a Hog Daddy once more and neither of us want to see that. Especially Cody and Brody.
Jon Plester is a writer, improviser, filmmaker, and all-around bad boy from Philadelphia.