By: Zack Poitras
Hey filth fans, Road Rat here. Hope you ‘re all fuckin ‘ fast and skippin ‘ traps.
Boy, have I got a tale for you dirt-kissers. There I am, tail-deep in some primo wet bags o ‘ trash, feasting on some hospital slop, when I all of a sudden feel weightless.
It takes me a sniff to realize I ‘m flying through the air when BAM! I land on a small lake of shit-yummy waste. Then this big metal door slams to a shut and whoops – you ‘re roving reporter is trapped like an us in a cage.
It didn ‘t take me long to realize this was my kind of dump. So much trash you can swim in it, and it smells like nine dogs died in there – if they made that truck a fragrance I ‘d buy a lifetime supply.
Plus, some cig-eater keeps tossing sack after sack of delicious rottings right into my outstretched paws. I mean my little jaws can ‘t keep up. I feel like I ‘m in stain-licking heaven.
The only thing you got to watch out for is when they squish the trash. A raccoon got tossed in there on day two, and ten minutes later, he got squished between two bags of leaking batteries and his eyes popped out. They were delicious, sure, but it was also like, ‘fuuuuck that.”
After three days I finally got flipped into the big dump, and wouldn ‘t you know it? I got nine cousins who fuck in a tire ten feet away. So it looks like this vacation is just getting started.