STIFFIE'S P.P.

Saturday night, I pulled a delivery to the eastern most edges of our store's territory. It was dusk when I turned off the main road and on to a well worn dirt road that featured some handwritten signs marking the way. STIFFIE'S P P with an arrow pointing down the driveway. I figured I was headed in the right direction because the name on the order said, "Stiffie". I pulled around a sharp turn in the driveway and I was suddenly not alone. There were ponytails, tank tops, tattoos and saggy boobs as far as the eye could see...and that was just the men. The woman too all shared a theme. They all looked like they had been rode hard and put away wet and there was not enough real teeth between them to make a respectable set of dentures.
All the party's attendees were carrying at least one can of beer and smoking a ciggie butt or a joint. I found a parking spot amongst about 100 or so Harleys scattered around the house.I got out of the Mostly Green and started walking towards what appeared to be the epicenter of Stiffieland, a pole mounted, 10 foot banner strung over a round patio type table with a red umbrella protecting it. I tried to speak to the first person to make eye contact with me.
"Stiffie," I inquired?
"Stiffie's not here, man," he responded and walked away.
Suddenly feeling as if I were in a Cheech and Chong skit, I looked for someone who both made eye contact and had a pulse.
"Excuse me," I said to a group of about 10, hoping that by the sheer size of this group, I could get a complete sentence. Does anyone know who ordered the 6 pizza's for Stiffie? There were a couple, "Stiffie's not here, dude" responses but one of them did say "go see Sheila at the table, Dude."
The lone seat at the round table was occupied by Sheila, an inflatable person dressed in a complete "Camo" outfit. Her head was covered with a floppy camo hat and her camo fatigues all the way down to her jump boots. Now, I had never actually seen a "blow up doll" before but Sheila certainly had the makin's of one. I couldn't see her privates but her mouth was a gaping maw which dominated most of her face. I refused the urge to talk to her about the pizzas but a real woman did walk out the house as I approached. She said, "those go there. Just put them by Sheila, she'll guard them." The woman paid me, then tipped nicely. As I walked to the Mostly Green, I took a look over my shoulder at Sheila. Still seated, guarding the pizzas, under the large banner that read: STIFFIE'S PAROLE PARTY. Apparently still no Stiffie, however.