The tragicomedrama of Patrick Stewart is now,
thankfully, officially, over. It feels like we're on
tour again, and, well, the thing that was really
bothering me before was that it didn't feel like a
tour. It felt like a humongously expensive
odyssey, regardless of my ability to actually spell
or spellcheck odyssey. When you really just want
to be sleeping in after a night of music and gutter
-trash dating shows featuring dirty dudebros and
women so catty you fear they might crap in
scented sand, yet, instead, you've got to wake up
with the sun and haggle with greasy, mustachioed
assbags. Hey, that's what I do at work. I don't
want to do it on the road.
As an added bonus, driving the Donald instead of
Patrick Stewart is like moving from eating gruel,
coleslaw, and slurry to a steady diet of surf and
turf. I feel like I'm in a luxury liner* after riding
the bus for a year. Hell, we bought an Atari for
the back seat. I kid you not. If you're going to be
making payments on something until you have
arthritic knees and cyborg grandchildren, you might
as well enjoy every bit of it.
Take last night for example. If we were in
Arizona, we'd've resigned ourselves to hours
miserable erranding. Instead, we had numerous
Lone Stars, played one of those flop-around-like
-a-beached-beluga shows, and stayed up, slumber
party style, debating with Brett and various
members of Division Day whether if you use a
cucumber for...nefarious reasons, whether the
cucumber actually <i>becomes</i> said implement or
if its just, in the end, a cucumber used for
nefarious reasons. The jury: still out.
The point here is that that's fun. Or, if you don't
enjoy quasi-convoluted debates in which someone
struts around the room with shoes on their hands
claiming that they're gloves, you must at least
admit the rest of it sounds enjoyable. And after
the recent misfortunes, the whole shebang is
triply enjoyable.
Tonight, we mosey into Houston and avoid bringing
up the possibly (and hopefully) dead Ken Lay. I
hear his fan club there is rather miniscule. My
head's clearing and I'm returning to normalcy.
Which is to say: expect rambling.
*...forty tons of steel / no one in this whole wide
world knows the way I feeeeel
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4 comments:
Can't the cucumber be both a cucumber AND a pleasure device? If not, then I'd have to say, it's a dildo. Unless you eat it afterwards. Then it's still a cucumber.
"...you think I'm lonesome/so do I, soooo do I..."
Ahh, but the true question is, at what point during the process does it become a pickle?
And, by the way, we were all born color blind, but there are these contacts...
i *love* the word "mustachioed!"
dudes, i saw you in the new issue of WIRED this morning on my commute to work and i almost peed myself with excitement! but i didn't, don't worry. instead, i blogged about it. hee hee!
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