We start off with Ashton hammering a sign into the ground reading “Yard Sale, Everything Must Go!”. Based on the violence she is channeling into that hammer, she done fed up with somethin’. Folks behind her at the sale are dashing about in that nosey way where they might pretend to be interested in your Lobo 8-Track, but they really want to get the dirt on what up with the sudden clearance sale.
Cue some guy arriving in his pickup, a bit confused about the goings on. (A subtitle informs us “All HIS stuff must go!” Ah. Got it.) While customers paw things like deer heads and fishing lures, the guy in the truck honks his horn. Of course, that puny little noise doesn’t stop anybody from doing whatever, so he hops out to do some damage control. He looks to be about 5-foot-5. Good luck with that.
He runs up to Ashton as she is happily throwing more of his crap in another box, and when he tries to get all huffy, she hurls his phone at him, which is open to some slut texting that she misses and loves him. Ashton then launches into the vocals of her revenge tune, using a now-desecrated wedding album as a handy prop. Let’s just say that Truck Boy does not benefit from the modifications to the album.
Then Ashton drags Truck over to some geeky guy with Internet access, and he’s found images of Slut Girl driving around in Truck’s truck, her hooters barely able to stay inside the truck. (It’s probably the gun rack taking up all the room. The truck’s rack, not hers.) Then we get a gander at a dictionary where Truck’s picture accompanies the definition of “liar”. (Wow, do you think Ashton is just a little bit miffed.)
Ashton now takes a break from the confronting to go sit on a keg in the garage, sporting a pretty dress and singing some more of the song. (Seriously? A keg in the garage? There wasn’t a nice tree she could lean against while butterflies whiz past?) Ashton likes to wave her hands around quite a bit, probably to make it extra special clear that her former man is a pig.
Cut to Pig Man dashing around the yard and trying to snatch back his belongings. Well, that doesn’t sit well with Ashton, so she puts her flannel shirt back on and a for-sale sign on Pig’s truck. (Oh, and look at that, she finds a bottle of whisky on the front seat, which she promptly hurls at Pig. He glances at the bottle and discovers that he is now on the label for the hooch. I guess word travels fast. Somebody had a yard sale and the whole liquor industry has to re-brand.)
More of Ashton straddling that keg and waving her hands. (She has a really fun way of saying “pig”, in case you like to track such things.) The keg-ride is interspersed with Flannel Ashton selling off more of Truck’s junk, and quite happy to do so. Truck’s truck, boat, and ego go bye-bye in just a few seconds. Then Ashton relaxes in a chair while shoppers and/or family members wave signs along the lines of “Go, Goodbye, Get Lost, Get Out, Get Gone” in a nice synchronized movement that you might see the drill-team perform at a high-school football game, assuming that you weren’t under the bleachers sucking face with bad boys while seated asses were lined up over your heavy-breathing head, missing the whole half-time show and possibly your next period.
Back to the garage, where Glamour Ashton is destroying more of Truck’s trophies using one of his golf clubs. Once she’s done with the decapitations, she breaks the golf club over her knee and then hurls it off toward a shelf of motor oil or something. But she’s not bitter.
Back at the yard sale, Truck grabs a Bible in a last-ditch effort, maybe hoping that Jesus can cancel all the credit card transactions. Ashton is not impressed. Jesus might forgive or hold up credit lines, but she sure don’t. Back on the keg, Glamour Ashton is feeling quite liberated. To top off her new-found freedom, she decides to burn Truck’s letter jacket in a handy barbecue grill that just happens to be sitting beside her. She has quite a good time with the impromptu cookout, even muttering the word “asshole” with a grin a mile wide.
We finish up with Truck still trying to get his things back out at the yard sale, but these people done paid and they ain’t playin, no, sir. Even his dog, wearing a “Sold!” sign, is being dragged away by an older woman that looks like she knows how to make a mean batch of biscuits and gravy. Truck finally collapses to the ground, throwing down his ball cap in frustration.
Moral of the story? Don’t mess with Ashton. She will NOT put up with your crap. And she’ll get a hit single out of it, making you look like even more of a truck pig. Word.
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