Welcome to Hell: 12 hours in a car with Mush, a farting dog and an annoying camera guy

I don’t know where the fuck I am. It’s 1 a.m. and I’ve just completed 12 hours in my reasonably priced GMC Acadia with Marty Mush and some annoying-ass camera man.

With me moving my family to the NYC area so I can take over Barstool, I needed some help with the move. The idea was we’d bring Mush down to the South so he could help me drive my car and my possessions northward. The idea was shit.

I picked these two dipshits up at the Birmingham, Alabama Westin hotel at 10 a.m. I vowed to drive as long as we cold before stopping because we had a 15-hour trip ahead of us.

We made it six miles.

So the Walker-Mush partnership has been magical in the three months I’ve been employed at Barstool. We watched a NASCAR race together, he came to Mississippi, he ate squirrel stew at my Uncle Donnie’s. We’ve become good friends. And I enjoyed the company on the ride.


I was subjected to the inner thoughts of Marty Mush’s brain from 10 a.m. until midnight, and I’m starting to become infected. I spent 15 minutes staring out my hotel window wondering where mist comes from and why a question mark has a curve in it.

But things happen when two gamblers get in a car together. Everything became a bet. We bet on checkers at Cracker Barrel. We bet on mini golf. I went 0-for-3.

The full video is coming soon. But here’s a brief recap:

We got kicked out of Sir Goony’s Family Fun Center in Chattanooga before we could even play mini golf or hit in the batting cages. They said we couldn’t film there. And I’m sure that was totally the reason and it definitely wasn’t the fact that our cameraman looks like he’s in some sort of pedofile-in-training program.

My dog farted every 15 minutes, on schedule.

My cat shit in its travel bag.

The cameraman, Tom, and I got into a brief little spat because he wanted to stop every 1.2 miles for content. This asshat wanted to go camping.

The climax of the day came on an empty, barren high school football field in Bristol, Tennessee. Marty had been crowing about being able to run a sub-4.8-second 40-yard dash all day, and I was finally tired of it. So I bet him $100 he couldn’t do it. I mean, shit, look at him. His body looks like those coffee-drinking, cigarette-smoking aliens in Men In Black.


The motherfucker did it.

Right now, we’re halfway finished. We’re actually at a Comfort Inn in Harrisonburg, Virginia and things are going OK. He’s a grown man sitting over there wearing a Duke basketball jersey, looking like JJ Redick’s underachieving cousin, but things are OK. Today, we knock out West Virginia, Pennsylvania and Jersey. Marty said we can do anything we want as long as we stop for at least an hour in Pennsylvania so he can “try out being Amish.”

Will update later.