It was a fat drunk guy with his junk hangin' out

We were leaving the pawn shop last night, rehashing our day. We rounded the curve by the inappropriately named "Lucky Stop" when we heard a crunch and saw sparks from the transformer shoot into the sky. The light pole fell over, live wires falling on the hood of the truck that just hit it. Aunt Cheryl whipped her car onto the side street and handed me her cell phone before jumping out of the car to render aid.

"Call 911, tell 'em we've got live wires down," she yelled over her shoulder.

A crowd of folks gathered around the wreck, all hoping to be a hero. 911 promised that help was on the way. That didn't stop the shirtless white guy with the necktoo from kicking out the passenger side window.

"We've gotta get him out, the cab is filling with smoke!"

"Watch out for those live wires!"

They pulled a fat black man from the wreckage. The force of the impact knocked him out of his pants, and his junk was hanging out.

"Oh my god, that's Pookie," screamed a skinny black girl. She grabbed his face, whipping it back and forth. "Pookie! Pookie! Is you okay? Wait a minute...that ain't Pookie." She began to tug at his pants furiously, trying to bring them up to a modest level.

"Hon, we don't know if he has a broken neck or back, we need to just get him on the ground."

"But his junk is showing," the skinny black girl replied.

"The EMT's have seen junk before. We just need to stabilize him until help gets here."

The fat drunk guy was laying on the ground, his face covered in a shit eating grin. "I can't feel a thing," he said.

"I'm not surprised," Aunt Cheryl told me, "he smells like a brewery. If he's alright, he's going to jail tonight."