Even though it was almost 41 years ago I remember this news story way too vividly for my own good. I think that I actually blew milk out of my nose when I watched it the first time.
DATELINE: 1970, Florence, Oregon. BTW, at that time Florence was a small village on the Pacific coast where you could literally walk out of your front door, cross the street, walk across the sand dunes and be in the ocean in less than 300 feet.
So, one morning the village wakes up to a rather vile, over powering stench. Shortly thereafter a number of beach walkers discovered the culprit: an 8-ton, 45-foot dead whale had washed up on the beach and was rapidly (RAPIDLY!!!) decomposing. EWW!!! Within a matter of hours a horde of onlookers and slew of news crews from Portland had arrived to "admire" the disaster. Hmmm, what to do with this nightmare. Bury it? No, it would only wash up again in the tide. Drag it back out to sea? Nope, it just pulled apart when they tried that. EWW!!! Cut it up for disposal? No one in their right mind volunteered for that cluster fuck!!! Hey, I know! Let's blow it up!!! WHAT??? Yet, that solution won approval...
The DOT was called in with some backhoes, some forklifts, a half a TON of dynamite and an additional half a ton of idiots to supervise the insanity. The beach side of the whale was hiked up and dynamite was packed underneath it with idea being to blow the majority of the thing back out to sea and leave the "smaller parts" left to the natural beach scavengers to take care of. ROLTFLMFAO!!! OK, whatever, sounds good on paper... Why does it always sound good "on paper"???
So, with the explosives set, the crowd is moved back a safe distance of a quarter of a mile and the blast is let loose. What happened next can only be described as unholy and truly unhuman. The blast rivaled Nagasaki in it's attempt. The assembled crowd was cheering. The newscaster was overjoyed. And then the unthinkable happened. It started raining whale. Everywhere. Yes, they had all been taught a very valuable lesson... just like sheep, whales do not fly as much as they, how shall I put this... plummet. Spectators were running for their lives. The camera crew was pummeled. The newscaster was covered in decomposing whale parts. EWW!!! And then they cut to the parking lot several blocks away. Not a pretty sight. Multiple cars had been smashed beyond recognition by sofa sized pieces of whale parts. And I am talking SERIOUSLY smashed. I wasn't sure how to view this mayhem. Was it "It's Raining Men" from the Weather Girls gone horridly awry or that chapter from the "Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy" about the inter galactic interstate by-pass reconstruction thing come way too true. It was whale "goo" on a scale way too much for me to even consider... Oh, the humanity!!!
Think I'm kidding? Google up YouTube, do a search for "1970, exploding whale, Oregon" and see what you find. I CANNOT make this shit up!!!
Now... for those of you out there with even a stronger sense of stomach, stay on YouTube and search for "exploding whale Taiwan". Other than that it involves a larger whale, a flatbed truck, a crowded intersection and couple of mini-malls, that is all I'm gonna say. Happy flukes to you...
Again, I just can't make this crap up...
Saturday, October 29, 2011
I SO Know This Womans' Pain...
I live for stories like this. Have you heard about this one yet? It's hysterical. For the last two days I have not been able to not break out into snorting laughter when someone even says a word that remotely rhymes with dildo. BTW, much like "orange", there are NO words that rhyme with "dildo". Trust me, I have Googled it with no success.
OK, short story long. A woman flying from Newark, NJ to Dublin on vacation goes to "Babeland" (yes, it really was called that) and purchases a dildo that she feels will not alert the TSA officials when she packs it in her checked luggage. Oh sweet jesus, what is stranger, buying a dildo that meets TSA standards or thinking that anything in your checked luggage isn't going to give TSA a hard-on that demands a search??? So, she gets to Dublin, checks into her hotel and begins to unpack. What does she find inside the suitcase that has the dildo in it? One of those ubiquitous TSA forms that lets you know that your luggage was selected for a "random" search. And on the the official form is a note written in ink that says "Get your freak on!". Well, of course, she feels horribly "violated" by this action. Personally, I would have been standing there in the hotel room, laughing my ass off and raiding the mini-bar with a vengeance. But that's just the way I am... This woman scanned the TSA form into her computer and posted it on her blog. Guess what, it has gone wildly viral. It's everywhere. And she is so pissed off she could eat nails. Hey, lady, exhale. You have proof that at least one TSA Nazi has a sense of humor and you still have your dildo. It was NOT misinterpreted as a potential incendiary device and detonated on the tarmac. FYI to the TSA, by their very nature and design and how they are meant to be used a dildo is not meant to explode. You? Yes! The dildo? No!
Again, I know her anguish...
Several years ago on our return trip back to the States from Mexico I found myself in a somewhat similar situation. Does this surprise you at all??? We were flying Business Class that trip so we had pretty much unlimited checked luggage availability which I of course pounced on like a street dog on an unguarded child. Two of my three checked suitcases went down empty so I could fill them up on one of my famous Mexican shopping sprees. Which I happily did. On the way back all three of my suitcases were not only grossly overweight and WAY over the limits on things like booze (just shy of a full case) and cigarettes (about ten cases) but stuffed full of groceries, handicrafts (I love that term, it's so all encompassing) and assorted weird shit that only I can find in a serious alley crawl south of the border. Now, Mexico has its own version of the TSA. It's called the TdHdC. Which basically translates to Transportante de Horrible de Chupacabra. They descend upon you like a swarm of flies before you get closer than 20 feet to the check-in counter, seize your luggage, spread it out on banquet tables and begin to rummage through it like they were at a flea market. OK, I'm used to that so I'm not paying attention to what is going on until I notice that Sea Squirt has this rather shocked look on his face that was a bit deer in headlight-esque and he's staring over my shoulder. Then I turned my head and saw what was getting his attention. The TdHdC guy has just opened my first suitcase and is starting to go through my shaving kit. What does he have hanging off of his rubber gloved index finger? A cascade of 4 cock rings. One metal, two leather and one a combination of the two. Oh, fuck... And btw, I do indeed travel internationally with a selection of those things. Yes, I am indeed THAT gay...
Suddenly I find myself between a rock and a really shitty place. Sea Squirt is beside himself, I'm trying not to burst into laughter or make myself look like I have a couple of kilos of coke up my ass and I'm desperately trying not to strangle the rancid old queen at the table to my left who is getting her luggage raped but is snickering at what is happening to me. Well, since I didn't know how to say "baby bracelets" in Spanish (which I knew stood a snow balls chance in Jalisco of even getting remotely airborne) I was considering just pointing at the rancid old queen to my left and starting to scream "Le Bomba!!! Le Bomba!!!" at the top of my lungs. Which, btw, does not mean "bomb" in Spanish as much as it means "water heater" but I figured, what the hell, I have nothing to lose at this point. Then I hear the sound of grinding metal as all of the gears inside TdHdC guys head lock as he finally realizes just exactly what he has hanging off of his finger actually is. At that point I am resigned to being led away to a small, windowless room and forcibly strip searched by a crowd of badly uniformed Federale's who are all making a rather unsettling sucking noise through their teeth and saying something loosely translatable as "Hey, Bay-bee!!! Hey, Bay-bee!!!" while they make me dance on a table for them.
Luckily, calmer heads prevailed. TdHdC guy slipped the chandelier of cock rings back into my shaving kit, zipped it up, put it back into my suitcase, closed it and then proceeded to grab all three of my suitcases off of the table and took them straight to the check-in counter with a look of disgust on his whitened face which, I might add, is quite difficult for a Mexican national to attain. After he gave my luggage to the ticketing agent he grabbed the bottle of hand sanitizer from the counter and drank it. Two minutes later we are ticketed, boarding passed and on the escalator up to the boarding level, where I immediately plant my ass at the first bar I can find, slam a couple of shooters and then head to the Duty Free area to fill my empty shoulder bag with a couple of more bottles of tequila and a carton or two of more cigarettes. Needless to say, Sea Squirt was appalled at my bravado. Fuck him.
Guess who sat directly across the aisle from me from Vallarta to O'Hare??? That snickering, rancid old queen who was not at all happy since she had gotten her luggage dumped completely out on the table and had been put face up against a wall and patted down like an illegal alien. Hey, bitch, what comes around goes around... I happily drank my way to O'Hare and relished on the two contraband apples I had stashed in my shoulder bag. Apparently, if you distract security with some rather unsavory sex toys they just don't seem to care that you're smuggling produce...
OK, short story long. A woman flying from Newark, NJ to Dublin on vacation goes to "Babeland" (yes, it really was called that) and purchases a dildo that she feels will not alert the TSA officials when she packs it in her checked luggage. Oh sweet jesus, what is stranger, buying a dildo that meets TSA standards or thinking that anything in your checked luggage isn't going to give TSA a hard-on that demands a search??? So, she gets to Dublin, checks into her hotel and begins to unpack. What does she find inside the suitcase that has the dildo in it? One of those ubiquitous TSA forms that lets you know that your luggage was selected for a "random" search. And on the the official form is a note written in ink that says "Get your freak on!". Well, of course, she feels horribly "violated" by this action. Personally, I would have been standing there in the hotel room, laughing my ass off and raiding the mini-bar with a vengeance. But that's just the way I am... This woman scanned the TSA form into her computer and posted it on her blog. Guess what, it has gone wildly viral. It's everywhere. And she is so pissed off she could eat nails. Hey, lady, exhale. You have proof that at least one TSA Nazi has a sense of humor and you still have your dildo. It was NOT misinterpreted as a potential incendiary device and detonated on the tarmac. FYI to the TSA, by their very nature and design and how they are meant to be used a dildo is not meant to explode. You? Yes! The dildo? No!
Again, I know her anguish...
Several years ago on our return trip back to the States from Mexico I found myself in a somewhat similar situation. Does this surprise you at all??? We were flying Business Class that trip so we had pretty much unlimited checked luggage availability which I of course pounced on like a street dog on an unguarded child. Two of my three checked suitcases went down empty so I could fill them up on one of my famous Mexican shopping sprees. Which I happily did. On the way back all three of my suitcases were not only grossly overweight and WAY over the limits on things like booze (just shy of a full case) and cigarettes (about ten cases) but stuffed full of groceries, handicrafts (I love that term, it's so all encompassing) and assorted weird shit that only I can find in a serious alley crawl south of the border. Now, Mexico has its own version of the TSA. It's called the TdHdC. Which basically translates to Transportante de Horrible de Chupacabra. They descend upon you like a swarm of flies before you get closer than 20 feet to the check-in counter, seize your luggage, spread it out on banquet tables and begin to rummage through it like they were at a flea market. OK, I'm used to that so I'm not paying attention to what is going on until I notice that Sea Squirt has this rather shocked look on his face that was a bit deer in headlight-esque and he's staring over my shoulder. Then I turned my head and saw what was getting his attention. The TdHdC guy has just opened my first suitcase and is starting to go through my shaving kit. What does he have hanging off of his rubber gloved index finger? A cascade of 4 cock rings. One metal, two leather and one a combination of the two. Oh, fuck... And btw, I do indeed travel internationally with a selection of those things. Yes, I am indeed THAT gay...
Suddenly I find myself between a rock and a really shitty place. Sea Squirt is beside himself, I'm trying not to burst into laughter or make myself look like I have a couple of kilos of coke up my ass and I'm desperately trying not to strangle the rancid old queen at the table to my left who is getting her luggage raped but is snickering at what is happening to me. Well, since I didn't know how to say "baby bracelets" in Spanish (which I knew stood a snow balls chance in Jalisco of even getting remotely airborne) I was considering just pointing at the rancid old queen to my left and starting to scream "Le Bomba!!! Le Bomba!!!" at the top of my lungs. Which, btw, does not mean "bomb" in Spanish as much as it means "water heater" but I figured, what the hell, I have nothing to lose at this point. Then I hear the sound of grinding metal as all of the gears inside TdHdC guys head lock as he finally realizes just exactly what he has hanging off of his finger actually is. At that point I am resigned to being led away to a small, windowless room and forcibly strip searched by a crowd of badly uniformed Federale's who are all making a rather unsettling sucking noise through their teeth and saying something loosely translatable as "Hey, Bay-bee!!! Hey, Bay-bee!!!" while they make me dance on a table for them.
Luckily, calmer heads prevailed. TdHdC guy slipped the chandelier of cock rings back into my shaving kit, zipped it up, put it back into my suitcase, closed it and then proceeded to grab all three of my suitcases off of the table and took them straight to the check-in counter with a look of disgust on his whitened face which, I might add, is quite difficult for a Mexican national to attain. After he gave my luggage to the ticketing agent he grabbed the bottle of hand sanitizer from the counter and drank it. Two minutes later we are ticketed, boarding passed and on the escalator up to the boarding level, where I immediately plant my ass at the first bar I can find, slam a couple of shooters and then head to the Duty Free area to fill my empty shoulder bag with a couple of more bottles of tequila and a carton or two of more cigarettes. Needless to say, Sea Squirt was appalled at my bravado. Fuck him.
Guess who sat directly across the aisle from me from Vallarta to O'Hare??? That snickering, rancid old queen who was not at all happy since she had gotten her luggage dumped completely out on the table and had been put face up against a wall and patted down like an illegal alien. Hey, bitch, what comes around goes around... I happily drank my way to O'Hare and relished on the two contraband apples I had stashed in my shoulder bag. Apparently, if you distract security with some rather unsavory sex toys they just don't seem to care that you're smuggling produce...
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Amy Winewhore...
Let me preface this by stating that I am a firm believer in kicking them when their down. Especially if they are 6 feet down. Then I kick them even harder. Why? Because they can't fight back and if they're 6 feet under it's more than likely due to stupidity on their part. More on the "Darwin Awards" in a bit...
Which brings me to Amy Winehouse. Just typing her name makes be shake my head in bewilderment. I will be forever linked to weirdness in a truly strange way... She died on July 23, 2011. My birthday. If I ever get that as a Trivia question I am SO snagging a piece of the pie!!! Now, in all fairness, I did think she had a truly amazing voice and I loved the way that she barged through life like a rhino on steroids. Which apparently was about the only class of drugs she wasn't abusing. Schedule One's, Schedule Two's and a variety of Schedule Three's seemed to serve as a form of mother's milk to that train wreck. Oh, yeah, and let's not forget alcohol. That seems to have served as her alternative to oxygen from all accounts. She passed out on stage more times than I have been served with speeding tickets. She had more ink on her body than she did pink and had a fascination with over the top bouffant hairdon'ts that would make even the most seasoned drag queen run for the exits. One of the more exotic traits that she exhibited was in her touring contracts. She demanded that she be given a private dressing room and that it be stocked with two (yes, two) cases of Chivas Regal. That clause may have played a factor in the passing out on stage thing...
Yet, she had a wall of awards to her credit, including 5 Grammy's that she won on a single night which included 3 of the big 4. Tony Bennett recorded a duet with her and described her as the single most amazing female performer that he has ever encountered. OK, either she was really fucking amazing or he's so damned old he puts his Depends on backwards over his head!!!
So, she dies on my birthday. She was 27. Why do they always managed to die at the age of 27??? Her death did not surprise me. I waited with baited breath for the release of the coroner's report. I could only imagine that they would find enough drugs in her system to perform a root canal on King Kong. Guess what??? Nothing. Nada. Zip. She was clean. And just to deepen the mystery the coroner reported that all of her internal organs appeared to be in a healthy state. WHAT??? At the very least I was expected to hear about a liver that looked like something out of the Petrified Forest.
OK, so I'm getting my hair cut today and a "News Of The Weird" blurb comes on the radio and it's about Amy. The medical examiner released her official cause of death. Of course, my ears perked up. Would you believe "wreckless misadventure"??? Something to do with a blood alcohol level of .53. .53??? .53!!! Holy shit, what did she drink, fucking Milwaukee??? I cannot comprehend a blood alcohol level of that amount. Hell, I can't imagine having the ability to successfully find my mouth after I hit a .3 let alone maintain the ability to keep pounding them down to achieve a .53. Let's just say that I was sitting in the chair giggling my ass off at this news. Of course, my stylist is completely unfamiliar with the term wreckless misadventure so I had to explain it to her. I started out with the self-inflicted injury route but that just didn't seem to carry the weight I was looking for so I just jumped right into the Darwin Award's category. Which, btw, are ALWAYS awarded posthumously. It's just the nature of the beast. Think of that news story we hear every 4th of July of the idiot who blows himself up lighting off fireworks outside of his single wide while smoking a cigarette and standing next to 5 gallon can of gasoline. Or the idiot who takes his Hummer H3 out on the lake to go ice fishing. Or the idiot who decides to put his car battery in the oven to keep it warm in the winter. Oh, wait a minute, that was me... Or, my favorite, the idiot who climbs up to the top of his silo to get a really good picture of that funnel cloud. #1, you are too stupid to be allowed to live anymore and #2, you actually do pose a serious threat to the gene pool. My stylist, bless her heart, understood perfectly. Or so I thought. She asked me if the awards were televised. I mentally penciled her in as potential nominee.
Which brings me to Amy Winehouse. Just typing her name makes be shake my head in bewilderment. I will be forever linked to weirdness in a truly strange way... She died on July 23, 2011. My birthday. If I ever get that as a Trivia question I am SO snagging a piece of the pie!!! Now, in all fairness, I did think she had a truly amazing voice and I loved the way that she barged through life like a rhino on steroids. Which apparently was about the only class of drugs she wasn't abusing. Schedule One's, Schedule Two's and a variety of Schedule Three's seemed to serve as a form of mother's milk to that train wreck. Oh, yeah, and let's not forget alcohol. That seems to have served as her alternative to oxygen from all accounts. She passed out on stage more times than I have been served with speeding tickets. She had more ink on her body than she did pink and had a fascination with over the top bouffant hairdon'ts that would make even the most seasoned drag queen run for the exits. One of the more exotic traits that she exhibited was in her touring contracts. She demanded that she be given a private dressing room and that it be stocked with two (yes, two) cases of Chivas Regal. That clause may have played a factor in the passing out on stage thing...
Yet, she had a wall of awards to her credit, including 5 Grammy's that she won on a single night which included 3 of the big 4. Tony Bennett recorded a duet with her and described her as the single most amazing female performer that he has ever encountered. OK, either she was really fucking amazing or he's so damned old he puts his Depends on backwards over his head!!!
So, she dies on my birthday. She was 27. Why do they always managed to die at the age of 27??? Her death did not surprise me. I waited with baited breath for the release of the coroner's report. I could only imagine that they would find enough drugs in her system to perform a root canal on King Kong. Guess what??? Nothing. Nada. Zip. She was clean. And just to deepen the mystery the coroner reported that all of her internal organs appeared to be in a healthy state. WHAT??? At the very least I was expected to hear about a liver that looked like something out of the Petrified Forest.
OK, so I'm getting my hair cut today and a "News Of The Weird" blurb comes on the radio and it's about Amy. The medical examiner released her official cause of death. Of course, my ears perked up. Would you believe "wreckless misadventure"??? Something to do with a blood alcohol level of .53. .53??? .53!!! Holy shit, what did she drink, fucking Milwaukee??? I cannot comprehend a blood alcohol level of that amount. Hell, I can't imagine having the ability to successfully find my mouth after I hit a .3 let alone maintain the ability to keep pounding them down to achieve a .53. Let's just say that I was sitting in the chair giggling my ass off at this news. Of course, my stylist is completely unfamiliar with the term wreckless misadventure so I had to explain it to her. I started out with the self-inflicted injury route but that just didn't seem to carry the weight I was looking for so I just jumped right into the Darwin Award's category. Which, btw, are ALWAYS awarded posthumously. It's just the nature of the beast. Think of that news story we hear every 4th of July of the idiot who blows himself up lighting off fireworks outside of his single wide while smoking a cigarette and standing next to 5 gallon can of gasoline. Or the idiot who takes his Hummer H3 out on the lake to go ice fishing. Or the idiot who decides to put his car battery in the oven to keep it warm in the winter. Oh, wait a minute, that was me... Or, my favorite, the idiot who climbs up to the top of his silo to get a really good picture of that funnel cloud. #1, you are too stupid to be allowed to live anymore and #2, you actually do pose a serious threat to the gene pool. My stylist, bless her heart, understood perfectly. Or so I thought. She asked me if the awards were televised. I mentally penciled her in as potential nominee.
Friday, October 7, 2011
My Own Private Bataan Death March...
OK, this is just SO me that it hurts. And I do mean hurts.
This afternoon I go up to the PDQ gas station on Monona Dr. to put some air in the tires. A simple enough task on the surface and one that I have managed to effortlessly accomplish innumerable times before. Today however I decided to throw myself a curve ball. Guess who managed to lock the keys in the car??? Yes, that would be me. No problemo, I think to myself, I'll just give AAA a call and ask for lock-out assistance. Where was my AAA card? In my wallet, of course. Which was sitting clearly on the passenger seat. Calling Sea Squirt was a useless option as we are now a one vehicle family and I had no money in my pockets to use the pay phone even if I wanted to. Why the pay phone you ask. Because the cell phone was charging at home. FMTT!!! My only option was to hike my ass home on foot and grab the other set of keys. Again, FMTT!!! I have since learned through a MapQuest search that the distance is a total of a little over 4.25 miles. And guess who has on a brand new pair of topsiders that are nowhere near broken in??? Boned just doesn't begin to describe the start of this cascade of errors.
As I walk across the gas station parking lot another customer approaches me and asks where the McDonald's is. I point down Broadway (the direction I need to go) and say turn left at the third light, two miles at the most. Do I think to ask if I can catch a lift that far with him? Hell no, that would have been way too easy!!! I just stood there, angry at my new shoes and watched him drive away. DUH!!!
I hadn't made it more than six blocks when my shins and calves started hurting and by the time I made it up the aforementioned McDonald's the first of my hips was starting to give out. (Did I mention that I am a very, VERY old person?). But at least I was "almost" half way home. And now walking directly into the wind for the rest of the journey. By the time I made it up the train tracks I was giving serious thought to just laying down on them and doing a Pearl Pureheart on myself with the next passing Burlington Northern. Cooler heads managed to somehow prevail and once I had finally stopped crying I continued on my sojourn. I had barely made it past the sewage treatment plant (thank god the wind was in my favor) when I knew I was in serious trouble. Remember those new shoes??? I had blisters on both heels and had managed to wear the better part of one of my little toes completely off. Hobbling along just doesn't adequately describe the rest of my journey.
An hour and a half after starting this hike from hell I finally made it home. Sea Squirt just happened to be looking out of the front window when he saw me come limping up the side lawn and needing to be buzzed in. He wasn't sure if I had been car-jacked or had managed to wreck the car again in one of my infamous T-Boning incidents. I know that he wanted to burst out laughing when I told him that I had locked the keys in the car but I think that he realized that had he done that I would have taken him out back and fed him to the squirrels. With the help of a neighbor who gave me a ride I was back home with car in about 20 minutes. Windblown, limping, slightly bloody and dehydrated I might add.
I quickly bellied up to the medicine cabinet and washed down half a sleeve of Mexican aspirin with a pitcher of Kool-Aid. Then, just for good measure, I tongued the last two 20 mg tabs of morphine that I had left to my name. Hey, I looked and felt like day old shit on a stick so it just seemed like a good idea at the time. What can I say, self medicating is one of my fortes. An hour later I felt better. A LOT better. Of course, with 40 mg's of morphine in me I also felt younger, prettier and totally smokin' hot as well. Opiates. They'll do that to ya...
How I somehow manage to spend entire days maneuvering the "streets" and "sidewalks" in Mexico (let alone the canyons of Calle de Fiba) and still want to go dancing until dawn is beyond me. Must be the brisk salt air. Or the tequila...
Have I learned a lesson from todays little adventure? You betcha!!! From now on Sea Squirt is in charge of putting air in the tires!!!
This afternoon I go up to the PDQ gas station on Monona Dr. to put some air in the tires. A simple enough task on the surface and one that I have managed to effortlessly accomplish innumerable times before. Today however I decided to throw myself a curve ball. Guess who managed to lock the keys in the car??? Yes, that would be me. No problemo, I think to myself, I'll just give AAA a call and ask for lock-out assistance. Where was my AAA card? In my wallet, of course. Which was sitting clearly on the passenger seat. Calling Sea Squirt was a useless option as we are now a one vehicle family and I had no money in my pockets to use the pay phone even if I wanted to. Why the pay phone you ask. Because the cell phone was charging at home. FMTT!!! My only option was to hike my ass home on foot and grab the other set of keys. Again, FMTT!!! I have since learned through a MapQuest search that the distance is a total of a little over 4.25 miles. And guess who has on a brand new pair of topsiders that are nowhere near broken in??? Boned just doesn't begin to describe the start of this cascade of errors.
As I walk across the gas station parking lot another customer approaches me and asks where the McDonald's is. I point down Broadway (the direction I need to go) and say turn left at the third light, two miles at the most. Do I think to ask if I can catch a lift that far with him? Hell no, that would have been way too easy!!! I just stood there, angry at my new shoes and watched him drive away. DUH!!!
I hadn't made it more than six blocks when my shins and calves started hurting and by the time I made it up the aforementioned McDonald's the first of my hips was starting to give out. (Did I mention that I am a very, VERY old person?). But at least I was "almost" half way home. And now walking directly into the wind for the rest of the journey. By the time I made it up the train tracks I was giving serious thought to just laying down on them and doing a Pearl Pureheart on myself with the next passing Burlington Northern. Cooler heads managed to somehow prevail and once I had finally stopped crying I continued on my sojourn. I had barely made it past the sewage treatment plant (thank god the wind was in my favor) when I knew I was in serious trouble. Remember those new shoes??? I had blisters on both heels and had managed to wear the better part of one of my little toes completely off. Hobbling along just doesn't adequately describe the rest of my journey.
An hour and a half after starting this hike from hell I finally made it home. Sea Squirt just happened to be looking out of the front window when he saw me come limping up the side lawn and needing to be buzzed in. He wasn't sure if I had been car-jacked or had managed to wreck the car again in one of my infamous T-Boning incidents. I know that he wanted to burst out laughing when I told him that I had locked the keys in the car but I think that he realized that had he done that I would have taken him out back and fed him to the squirrels. With the help of a neighbor who gave me a ride I was back home with car in about 20 minutes. Windblown, limping, slightly bloody and dehydrated I might add.
I quickly bellied up to the medicine cabinet and washed down half a sleeve of Mexican aspirin with a pitcher of Kool-Aid. Then, just for good measure, I tongued the last two 20 mg tabs of morphine that I had left to my name. Hey, I looked and felt like day old shit on a stick so it just seemed like a good idea at the time. What can I say, self medicating is one of my fortes. An hour later I felt better. A LOT better. Of course, with 40 mg's of morphine in me I also felt younger, prettier and totally smokin' hot as well. Opiates. They'll do that to ya...
How I somehow manage to spend entire days maneuvering the "streets" and "sidewalks" in Mexico (let alone the canyons of Calle de Fiba) and still want to go dancing until dawn is beyond me. Must be the brisk salt air. Or the tequila...
Have I learned a lesson from todays little adventure? You betcha!!! From now on Sea Squirt is in charge of putting air in the tires!!!
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