Ok, I kinda fucked up on the road tonight but the laugh rewarding me was well worth the chink in my pride. I was driving down I-85, approaching the Poplar Tent exit. Sleep deprived and bleary-eyed, a barbecue and a handful of beers agents of attrition, I signaled for the turn. However, the turn failed to materialize as expected, hovering on the benighted horizon, a nocturnal teaser unobtainable for another thirty seconds, at least. Except I remained unable to perceive the actual distance to the exit, thus my signal kept ticking -- I'm sure all following vehicles were wondering when I was going to pull onto the shoulder to assess an automotive failure of proportions indeterminable to them. The part that's funny to me is imagining the way fellow commuters stared at me, what they thought about my driving. Because I do it myself, I'm sure everyone following was belittling me silently or complaining to fellow occupants about the moron ahead signaling a half mile before his turn. I chuckle at that knowledge.
Also, I'm almost positive that only when other people are high do they feel about food the way I do all the time. What I'm saying is if Little Debbie were a living Snack Cake Queen, I'd treat becoming her personal bodyguard the way a twelve-year-old ball prodigy in the most crime-riddled of projects treats playing pro hoops and earning pro loot -- anything to protect her from armies of cakey enemies. And at nights I'd be happy to reward her by eating whatever she commanded.
Lastly, this image has been popping into my head every few minutes for the last twenty four hours: a group of neighborhood kids pulling my dad around on a sled -- with or without a beer in his hand, whichever you prefer. Granted, some parents might object to my father's notions of amusement, but who wouldn't take advantage of an opportunity to derail the destructive tendencies of a bunch of kindergarten kamikazes who would otherwise be ricocheting throughout one's home and property? Seriously, what adult doesn't want to be pulled on a sled by children? And what kid doesn't have the energy and warped desire to engage in the type of pointless and burdensome behavior they'll learn to hate within a few summers anyway? Aren't kids born to entertain parents for as long as possible, proactive atonement for the "troubled" teenage eons the adults have to endure?
Harness the proverbial "crack of youth," the natural and tireless insanity that thrives from birth through age eight or nine. Hell, it'll keep the kids skinny. It's physically impossible to not crack a smile riding to a neighbor's house on a sled pulled by children, particularly his children, beer in hand -- especially when you're already embroiled in some tense interfamilial dispute! I'd wake up earlier every day if it meant I'd have more time to be transported by the grunt-work of children. DAMN MENACES! But, yes, that's practically the entire reason I'm always down to procreate, and why I want to leave kids in every country I visit: so I can have potential sled-pullers scattered worldwide, when I'm forced to flee my nation of residence.
Also [stealing this from Hayley's Facebook recollection of this past weekend], a funny moment:
Bruce: "You really do remind me so much of my sister. You act exactly the same, I love it, it's awesome."I'm positive the mentions of cars, an interstate, and ambitions of international illegitimacy justify the insertion of this entire post into my "travel blog." Right, I'll try to restrain myself in the future. But deciding what labels to assign each post is becoming my favorite pastime.
Hayley: "Aww, that iss awesome. How old is your sister?"
Pibba: "Four."
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