Do deet “I drink my beer and I beat my wife.”

Do deet “Duhduhduhdut.”

The song continues through more vulgar language to commemorate their dead-end jobs and less-than-spectacular lives. Despite their roughneck ways, they come from a dying breed of men who still open doors for women and firmly believe in shotgun justice. They’re the kind of guys you don’t mess with, but if you know them, you’re addicted.

Tom screws with Ben all the time. As a long-time friend and drinking buddy, Tom knows what buttons to push. When Ben picks out a home improvement job—which he notoriously sucks at—Tom gives him hell, like when Ben wanted to hang insulation right after Hurricane Isabel hit the area September 2003.

Despite the fact that insulation had become scarce since the hurricane, Ben chooses a medium-size house in Poquoson to hang it. Only Southside Peninsula, forty-five minutes away, has insulation. Tom suggests taking only one work van and a trailer to conserve gas as they travel to the Southside Home Depot.

That sucks. Ten left over bags won’t fit in the trailer, so they stuff them in the back of the work van. Tom takes a three-point football stance and then charges the van door. “Whap!” as John Madden would say. “Put some butt behind it!” Ben yells. Like a remote control car, Tom backs up and tries again. Home Depot customers look on with astonishment as these boys in the front parking space make fools of themselves.

“Close it. Close it! CLOSE IT! CLOSE IT!”

But this is only half the battle. While crossing the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel the rope comes loose on the trailer. Tom shakes his head trying to hold back a smile. Ben thinks, “There goes the insulation!” The guys decide not to watch. That’s all they need, a littering ticket. Tom already has a “hootin’ and hollerin’” ticket for yelling out a car window while trashed. That went over real well in court after the officer told the judge what choice comments Tom had made about cops.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Tom blames Ben with an “I-hate-you,-you-little-bastard” attitude when they arrive, somehow, with all the insulation intact. Ben tries to cover his growing laughter, claiming he doesn’t remember it being that bad. This would turn out to be a terrible job requiring contortionist flexibility to put up each piece of insulation—eight pieces in each of thirty bags hung one by one, all the while avoiding exposed electrical wires which, as the boys know from experience, make for a damn good bite. The job takes two 40° days with only a $230 profit for each man.