The biggest speeding ticket I’ve ever gotten (so far) was on the Ohio Turnpike heading to my friend Joe’s wedding in Toledo. Enterprise rent-a-car had upgraded my mid-size sedan to a new Dodge Charger – the benefit of reserving a car for the late afternoon is they often run out of the cars everyone reserves and they have to upgrade you. Needless to say, that car could move, and I was moving it.
The state cop flew up beside me, then got in front, pointing angrily to the shoulder as he slowed down and pulled over. I followed.
I didn’t really have an excuse, it was Friday and the wedding was Saturday, but since the cop didn’t know that I decided to give “I’m on my way to a wedding” a shot. I doubted it would get me out of it, but I had hope of it reducing the fine. For good measure, I tossed in whose wedding it was, thinking a little bit of “fame” might help too.
When asked why I was going so fast, I replied, “We’re on the way to Joe the Plumber’s wedding.”
It had been a few years since he was a household name, but I figured I’d give it a shot. It’s not like he could arrest me for name-dropping. He didn’t miss a beat, acted like he had no idea who I was talking about. I was out of ideas, resigned myself to whatever fine the state imposed – having grown up in Michigan, we are conditioned to not think much of people from Ohio, especially state police who, the story was, looked for Michigan plates to punish. My car didn’t have Michigan plates, but doing 123 on the turnpike probably more than made up for that.
The officer returned to the car with my ticket – a more than $200 fine, if I remember correctly – explained what he was obligated to explain, turned to walk away and said, “Tell Joe I said hi.”
He wasn’t going to cut me a break for knowing him – I can’t blame him, I deserved that ticket – but he knew who Joe the Plumber was, everyone knew who Joe the Plumber was. But I was lucky enough to know who Joe, or Samuel Joseph Wurzelbacher, really was; to call him a friend for the last 15 years. And I can assure you, we lost a good man over the weekend.
One of the first things I did when I met Joe was ask him to put on a Snuggie (remember those?) I’d drunkenly purchased months earlier and kept hidden out of embarrassment. I’d decided to embrace the shame and started taking pictures of people in my life in this bright blue shame blanket with sleeves. Over 150 members of the conservative political world wore that thing, including Andrew Breitbart, Tucker Carlson, Grover Norquist and Joe the Plumber.
It's a hell of a conversation starter, asking someone to put on a blanket with sleeves, but it always worked.
From there, Joe and I hung out at CPAC and kept in touch. We had similar backgrounds and sense of humor, and we got along well. Lots of phone calls – he answered lots of questions about sinks and toilets – plenty of hangouts when we were in the same place – I introduced him to Fogo de Chao, which he absolutely loved – general visits and that wedding.
Last time I saw him was last year, on a drive to visit my dad we stopped by Casa de Wurzelbacher for lunch and to let our kids play. He wasn’t yet diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, everything seemed fine.
When he told me of his diagnosis it didn’t seem real, he was always in great shape. But he was going to beat it because he was young and fit. The news never got good. Nothing they tried worked.
I knew he was more worried when he called me to talk about a regret he had, something that had been haunting him since it happened; something he’d always thought he’d have more time to address. The line “your dead kids don’t trump my constitutional rights” in an open letter bothered him, it was the one time he’d given into the seduction of clickbait; shock for attention. There were better ways to put it, he told me, and he wanted to somehow make up for it, make it known he was sorry for putting it that way. He didn’t get the chance.
I last spoke with him about 3 weeks ago, I just called to see how he was doing. His spirits were good, but he sounded drained. He didn’t tell me how bad it was. He said they were moving to Wisconsin to be closer to his wife’s family. That didn’t strike me as odd, though it should have. We were driving to Michigan for a memorial service for my parents and I had thought about seeing if they were up for a pop-by, but with packing and moving I didn’t bring it up; no need to get in their way. I wish I had.
I got the call from Katie, his wife, Sunday afternoon. Only 49. F*ck cancer.
We lost a good man, and I a great friend.
If it’s possible to be grateful for something in horrible circumstances like this it’s that his youngest kids are just old enough to likely have real memories of him, rather than stories repeated to them so often they seem like memories. It’s wildly unfair they weren’t able to make more. If you’d like to help the family or offer thoughts or prayers, please go here and do so.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Derek Hunter is the host of a free daily podcast (subscribe!) and author of the book, Outrage, INC., which exposes how liberals use fear and hatred to manipulate the masses, and host of the weekly “Week in F*cking Review” podcast where the news is spoken about the way it deserves to be. Follow him on Twitter at @DerekAHunter.
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