As we slowly cruised down the dusty, rock-filled dirt road in Jake's dilapidated truck, I couldn't help but fear for my safety. As we violently jostled on the stone strewn road, the truck had no doors to keep us from tumbling out of the cab. Instead, Jake had taken the ushers rope - complete with its golden tassels - from a condemned nightclub, and rigged the velvety straps across the truck’s absent doorways. Unfortunately, the only bouncer at these crimson ropes was the aggressive lurching of the truck.
Also, this rickety, rust-covered bucket of gas-powered bolts had no proper seats. I gripped the dashboard and the door frame while trying to sit on bales of hay. Jake comfortably sat on a small cow. Not only was she eating my seat, but she would carelessly mistaken my left pant leg for straw.
Sensing my discomfort and stress, Jake casually talked about the recent turn-around in his cow farm and auto upholstery business. Things were improving so much that he had returned to writing his book on how to repair leather car seats. As Jake's cow took a rather painful nibble on my leg, I glared down at the doe-eyed bovine and said, "I hope it's a cookbook on beef, and you start by repairing this one." That's when his potential hamburger bit me.
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