Having been without TV for the past three months, I’ve been completely out of touch with important world events. Miller Lite has some dumbass new can with a sort of breather hole to “improve pouring,” for instance. Clearly beer can technology has made strides while I was away. Still, why can no piss-beer company realize that what we really want is a can with both a breather hole and coldness indicator? Good to see bullshit marketing is still alive and well, though. I guess can technology makes as much sense as anything, though I still like Coors and Miller should just intentionally make their beer taste worse to go after the “ironic” market Pabst has cornered.
I spent last night in Pendleton, Oregon. After 2500 or so miles (only 250 or so to go). My arrival in Pendleton coincided, as it always seems to, with some sort of “toddler and tiaras” contest, which apparently draws people from across the nation. Also in town is what I believe to be a rodeo for people over the age of 70. At any rate, I was lucky to find a hotel room, even if the geriatric cowboy next door is snoring loud enough to vibrate the entire wall.
It’s a stark contrast to the domestic violence wake-up call I had in Joliet, Illinois. Here a dude negotiates with the police after he and his girlfriend decided to wake up the first floor of a Super 8 (and probably part of the second).
I’ve never understood why slamming a door more than once would ever be required. Either you’re leaving him/her or not. If you forgot your smokes, you can’t go back. It undermines the whole thing. To slam the hotel room door four or five times frankly suggests your heart’s just not in the breakup. Still, I’m far less afraid of this guy than I am a six-year-old wearing eye-shadow and a Snow White outfit.
Nebraska, meanwhile, looks like a painting of itself. It’s perfectly still and so uneventful you begin to wonder what’s wrong.
Periodically, though, Nebraska has its moments.
When the Romneys go MX racing, they always take their cat, Windburn.
Whereas Nebraska always tries to put me to sleep, Wyoming genuinely tried to kill me this time around. I have no idea how truckers survive crossing this state regularly. Since the domestication of the horse, let alone the invention of bicycles and automobiles, I can’t even understand how someone comes to live in southern Wyoming. Constant 50mph winds and a landscape that makes Mars look like a miniature golf course just seems uniquely inhospitable to me, but what do I know. I’ve lived in Pittsburgh, Chicago and even Atlanta. I have no room to talk.
Last night was spent at a Super 8 in Ogden, Utah, where the combination convenience store/inconvenient Denny’s restaurant included this display of books capable of “enriching my life.”
I came pretty close to purchasing, Satan, You Can’t Have My Children, but decided instead to one day publish the collected shit my kids say in a volume entitled Satan, You Can’t Handle My Children. Here’s the first entry. Happened the day before I starting my drive across the country.
Six year-old #1: (Apropos of nothing) Is “Friends” from France?
Six year-old #2: What friends? What do you mean?
Six year-old #1: You know, “Friends.”
Twelve year-old: Like the TV show?
Six year-old #1: (Relaxing in booster seat, eyes closed.) Yeah.
Dad: How do you know about “Friends”?
Six year-old #1: (Eyes still closed.) I watch it sometimes.
Twelve year-old: When have you ever watched “Friends”?
Six year-old: (Eyes still closed, but grinning.) I watch it with my friends.
Whatever’s so wrong with my kids, I have to admit I approve.
Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.