July 7th, 2005, 12:26 am

2 cases of Miller Lite, 2 packages of Depends

1 a.m., I just got in from a horrific road trip to Charlotte … flights being expensive, business necessitates the car.

The rain from some failed hurricane was coming from all angles; bouncing off the pavement, slapping me on the sides from 18 wheelers, surrounding me in a shower of bright white water, and reminding me of the horror of the lady in front of me at Eckerd’s.

She was nondescript, really — fat, old, boring — but her cart was chock to the brim of fascinating things. 2 cases of Miller Lite (cans) and 2 packages of Depends (adult diapers). I couldn’t help but stare at her in horror, imagining her on some worn, floral recliner chair somewhere, guzzling Miller Lite as it dribbled out of her stubbly labia onto her ever ready diaper.

Stuck in the water and the traffic, the vision grew stronger. I pictured the cycle as it surely must exist … her, with a cooler of beer to her left and a stack of Depends to her right; a chipped TV tray laden with a carton of GPC (menthol) and an issue of TV Guide (May edition), a set of tabby cats (either incredibly fat or mangy and thin), roaming about her tiny fetid apartment, making the TV grow more static when their tails accidentally twitched near the rabbit ears. As surely as she drained the Miller Lite cans — surely grown warm by the time she reached the bulk of them — just as surely would the clear, yeasty fluid wind its way through the lumpen cavities of her chest and fend its way through the abused stomach, only to spurt out in ungainly, unpredictable belchs from her labia — which now swung as freely as the jowls of a Basset Hound, in this imagined scenario of mine.

Just as my thoughts reached a crescendo of ick — surely this would gross out even Larry!!– I reached the city limits of Atlanta. My iPod FM transmitter stopped working; 94.1 was all of a sudden a real live radio station, blaring Kylie Minogue’s Can’t Get You Out of My Head. It ended, but …

Did I? Yes! I had downloaded the song to the Pod in a fit of nostalgia … remembering the time in San Antonio when I was unwillingly dragged to some chick I didn’t know’s bachlorette party, which totally sucked until we got in the car to go to the male strip club, and this song came on. The girl that was driving — I found out later that she was a post-op trans — handed us all a Smirnoff Twisted, and we sang along to Kylie as we drove down the strip, where we entered the club only to see a man with a ten inch cock doing some sort of head stand hopping thingy that caused his gi-normous penis to swing about in an amazing 270 degree arc.

Driving, 40 miles an hour on the highway, dead sick of traffic and weather and super tired… the bouncy part of the song came on … and my old lady and the trans-op became combined, until it was one beautiful Latina with incredible, built arms, flaunting a tiny, light purple silk shirt, and bopping up and down on a pogo stick as her enormous labia — now free of the diaper — flew as freely and as proudly as Dumbo, realizing his ears were useful after all.