I hate my ass. I like my butt. But I hate my ass.
Yes, there is a HUGE difference. My butt is a finely muscled mound of two clusters of flesh constructed solely to let me look good in my tight black jeans. My ass, on the other hand, is an insidious master of noxious chemical warfare. IT Lives solely to spew.
I’m not going to continue in this vein much longer, for the sake of the reader – let me just wrap this up by saying that NOW we won’t reach Richmond until closer to midnight, AND that I hate these new little half-doors that they’re putting on all the restroom stalls nowadays AND that I hate automatic flush toilets.
I understand that it seems as if the average male can’t be trusted to flush the toilet under such stressful environments as a public restroom, but there MUST be some middle ground, or a sensitivity switch or SOMETHING. These bastard creations of science seem to take a malicious delight in flushing beneath the unprepared buttocks -and all one can do is perhaps attempt to crouch an inch or two above the seat – which still doesn’t quite get you out of range of the horrific splashing. It’s like having a horrible dog licking your bottom, and there is no escape.
Bastard machines. The horrific toilet kraken belched forth it’s swirling suction (can you belch suction?) THREE TIMES beneath my distressed bowels before I could make my escape. God. This MUST happen to Bon Jovi, right? Right?!?
Sigh.
Anywho – the Trip meanders South otherwise uneventfully. Remind Heather to tell her story of the father and daughter stomp assassins…
In my Saturn, I have a 12 disc CD changer, and I generally keep it set to randomly sift through my random music, and with twelve discs of swirling rob-taste floating through my car, even I’M constantly discovering new things.
I think it was from one of Amy’s mix-discs. Beautifully decorated, I forget about them, lurking generally in slot 12 itself – they contribute something often beautiful, sometimes bizarre, often previously unheard to my musical miasma – and tonight, somewhere near Alexandria, right between “Voodoo Child” by Jimi Hendrix and “It’s Raining Men” by the Weather Girls, there was an etheric cover of Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” which I’m pretty sure was being performed by Sarah McLaughlin.
Sarah does Joni with the voice that I wish Joni had. It was gorgeous. Thanks Amy – it matched the wind-torn cloud cover and the bulging, orange moonlight perfectly. Reflected chrome of too-close semis and tail-lights and headlights and streetlights and speed. It was a velvet night.
Currently, I’m working myself up for sleep, winding myself down for slumber. We’re crashing at Chelsea and Beau’s tonight before heading on down to Raleigh. Mariposa didn’t seem too happy to see us at first, but we quickly regained her trust by almost, but not quite, giving her any food.
We watched “Detroit Rock City” which I appreciated more than I’d like to admit. Sigh, I’ll always be the not-quite-bad-ass-enough bad ass in my world, and I like to see the movies where my kind get their vengeance on the world.
Ah, long-Live the dirt rocker. Not that I’m a big KISS fan (does it REALLY stand for Knights in Satan’s Service?), but, you know – if the movie had been about a Van Halen concert, and they actually HAD gone to Disco Inferno… (they DID go to “It’s Raining Men”… I tittered at that.). Tee Hee.