Reader's Choice: Kickin' it with the Prez...

[Editor's note: I took a vote of anyone who happened to happen on this site, and apparently people like to read about the absurd above all things. So here's a story that's completely that. Enjoy, and don't forget to vote on other crazy crap over in the sidebar!]

So, I had this thought about what it would be like to take an hour or so out of President Obama's busy schedule. What would we do? What would we talk about? What would happen?

Without basing any of my thoughts firmly in reality, the event has already taken place in my head... here are the details.

I walked into the Oval Office, led in by Rahm Emmanuel, to see the back of the president's chair behind the Resolute Desk as he looked out the very large windows and took an even larger breath... most likely in anticipation of yet another asshole that wanted to bend his ear about something and waste the time he could be spending on fixing all the shit going on in the world today.

He spun around slowly to see me wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a solid colored short sleeve t-shirt underneath a striped long sleeve button down shirt that was untucked and wrinkled. He was taken aback a bit, and a hint of confusion could be seen in his eyes. But he remained cool.

Rahm introduced me, telling the President I had won a crazy contest or some such shit... no one was really sure why I was there, only that I had an hour of his time.

"Even Hillary and Bill together don't get an hour," he said, not completely convinced of the situation. "Not even when there's a crisis overseas."

"Well, I don't know what to fuckin' tell you," I said. "Shit happens.  It's not like I'm asking you to be my Facebook friend or something."

He nodded and shrugged, begrudgingly accepting his fate for the next sixty minutes or however long it's going to take in order to tell this goddamn story. He glanced at his watch and stared back at me.

I sat down in one of the chairs facing his desk, reached out my arms, and started banging on some of the wood panels in front of me with the palms of my hands.

"Excuse me," he implored. "Just what are you doing?" He remained cool.

"Looking for fucking secret panels, what else? I saw Nick Cage doing all sorts of crazy things with this desk and wanted to check it out for myself."

"Ehhh... Look," he started, pausing for a couple of seconds. "I can assure you that this desk doesn't have any secret compartments or anything of the sort."

"Yeah, right. If it did, I'm sure you'd tell me, right?"

With a quick, hard look in his eyes, I knew I was right. I kept searching the desk until I was satisfied. Then I kicked back in the chair, gazing around the room to get a feel for it.

"Can I call you Barry?" I asked.

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Okay... Mr. President," I sniped back. "Let's get out of this office. It gives me the fucking creeps."

"Me too," he said, raising his eyebrows as if to call me a looney.

He clearly hated me already. Everything in his body language said he hated me, not that I could really blame him for it. Obviously his first impression of me wasn't awesome, but maybe I could turn him around without being a complete fucking psycho sycophant like all of his political butt-buddies that try to leach off his popularity, at least until his numbers start to go down.

I'm sorry, but I won't treat "famous" or "important" people any differently than I treat my friends. My friends are far more important to me than any person that I'll meet once in my life. Who gives a rat's ass what the President of the United States of America thinks about one guy?

We walked through the West Wing, the President showing me this room and that as he walked like his suit was over-starched. But he was cool. Kind of.

"If I wanted a fucking tour of the White House, I'd find a better guide. Let's do something fun."

He stopped in his tracks, and the level of contempt he had for me had just grown tenfold. He had that look that fathers give their kids when being completely unreasonable, just before they ask, "Well what the fuck do you want to do about it?" He was just about to lose his cool.

"How about some hoops?" I replied, watching as his face was tightening into crazy knots. "You know, a little one on one, a game or two of horse... whatever." He looked at me and shrugged in agreement. "Or we could go bowling. I think we both suck pretty hard at that. Though my top score is a 174."

He smiled rigidly, then shook his head and winced. Then his shoulders dropped as he regained a small sense of humor about everything and lightened the fuck up. I was just glad to be making a little bit of progress with the dude. We quickly changed and warmed up a bit, and were ready for action.

Of course when it came to playing basketball with the leader of the free world, I completely sucked ass. Then again, basketball really isn't my thing. I'm okay on defense, but offensively I can't do jack squat. I was guarding him all right, and got a few tough rebounds without managing to kill myself. And I was especially relieved when the secret service didn't get in the way when I gave him a couple of elbows to the rib cage.

I had the ball at the top of the key and checked it. He passed it back and I assumed the pre-dribble pose, moving the ball quickly to my hip, elbows out, ready for action. I pump faked the three pointer without a dribble and he didn't bite. Fuck.

So I dribbled out, and at first he backed off, giving me room to roam outside the three point line. I wasted some time there, looking for a way in. I knew that if I could try for a layup, there's about a 90% chance that I'd make it... though under pressure maybe it's more like 75%, maybe even less. But he was blocking the lane pretty well, plus he's taller than me and has a damn good reach.

Plus, he's good at the game and I suck big hairy moose cock.

I played hoops in Junior High (13-14 years old, for those folk who don't fully fucking understand the american school system), and was the point guard for the team. In two years I managed to score a whopping four points, half of which were made at the free throw line.  But I was still nicknamed after Kareem Abdul-Jabbar... I had the sports glasses.  Of course, with me they smashed the first syllables together so that I was Cream Abdul-Jabbar.  The alabaster skin didn't improve my rep.  

They also called me Casper.  Assholes.

I don't watch college hoops or the pros, and haven't been to watch a game since watching my little brother in high school a couple years back. I haven't even touched a basketball in more than a year, despite having a hoop above the garage doors at my house.

So when it came to my "move" on President Barrack Obama, I failed miserably. He rushed me, tipped and stripped the ball away from me, and otherwise humiliated me on the court. My shots were those of pre-schoolers compared to his smooth style. I would hurl and fling the ball toward the hoop watching it bounce off the rim (along with a few air balls) as he gracefully glided the ball into the net, swishing it elegantly.

But I did score once. I had the ball at the top of the key, and started talking smack. He had me beat on skill, but I knew that I had the range to say whatever the hell I wanted and he wouldn't be able to retort. Being President and all, he had to play it clean in the war of words.

"Barry," I taunted. "Which way am I gonna go... BARRY?"

He was getting flustered again, I just knew it.

"Dave Barry, Chuck Berry, Barry Manilow, Barry Sobel," I riffed.  "Ping pong balls?  I thought you said King Kong's balls!  Eh, Baaaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyy?"

"Now, look..."

"Look at what.... Baaaa-rryyyy? Cat got your fucking tongue, Baaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyy?"

"Please stop calling me Barry," he said sternly. "How about just plain old Barrack?"

"Okay... Baaaaaaaaaaa-rryyyyyyyyyy," I chanted.

He stood up, giving up his position to take the high moral ground. While he went back on his heels, I lurched forward, taking my first dribbles with my right hand while striking hard into him with my left shoulder as I made my way to the hoop for an easy layup.

I helped him to his feet wearing a smirk the size of Roseanne (formerly Barr)'s underpants. "Suck on that one, Mr. President."

"You got me that time," he laughed as I helped him up. "But I'll win."

I had never been so completely sure of anything in my life before.

The final score was 10-1 and then we played a quick game of horse which I lost of course, of course. He only got an H because I actually sank a lucky bucket by bouncing the ball in from the free throw line. All of my long range hook shots and half court bombs barely ever came even remotely fucking close to the rim while the Prez played a steady game, sinking shot after shot, finishing me off with a slam dunk.

"Do we have a ladder or a fucking trampoline?" I begged.

We talked shit about how badly I sucked, and we told stories of the greatest shots and players of all time. It was an interesting, though lopsided conversation though, mainly because the greatest shots I've ever seen are the ones show on the news with the random guy off the street sinks a half court miracle shot to win a million bucks or whatever.

Of course on the court all the worries of the day can easily slip away in these friendly competitions. That's why we humans made up games in the first place.

When we finished, sweat was pouring off my forehead like the Minnehaha Falls while my new friend was as calm and cool as a cucumber.

Rahm Emmanuel peeked his head in and signaled the President by tapping his finger on his left wrist.

"Well, Pat," he started. "Look... They're telling me it's time to get back to it."

"Rahm is such a nazi prick," I countered.

"Yeah," he said. "But in a world filled with as many problems we have today, I need people to help keep me on task."

"Crap," I said, dropping my head down. "I didn't get to even eat lunch with you or anything..."

"Look... next time I'll bring the Subway and some soda."

"You Jared Fogle loving mother fucker! No way... we're having a burger and some beers, asshole. And not one of those cheap, piece of shit burgers either. If I'm gonna eat with the damn President, I'm gonna have all the calories I can."

"Then we should have gone bowling," he said grinning as he shook my hand. "I wasn't sure about you at first, but you're a pretty okay guy."

"You're not too bad either, Barry," I said with a shit-eating grin.

"Now look," he started, pointing his politician's thumb the way Bill C. had always done during his term in office. But he didn't finish. He laughed, gave a slight wink, and turned to his chief of staff, heading out the door to leave me alone in an empty room.

That's when I dropped my pants and took a massive shit on the floor.

"Suck on that one Mr. President," I whispered, hearing the S's of my speech bouncing back off the hard walls of the gym. "Suck on that one."

When asked later by the police why I had taken a dump on the floor of the White House, I replied simply that it seemed like the right thing to do and had no political meaning behind it whatsoever. "Hell, I voted for the guy," I said, "and I think he's pretty cool."

"I just thought he could take a fucking joke."

[Editor's Note: Okay... even I'll admit I didn't see that ending coming.  But it is absurd!]

Home Life: Some assembly required...

I'm trying to think back to who really gave me the raw thumbs and forefingers that I have right now.  Do I blame myself for being too stupid?  Hell no!  America is a litigious society, and if I was too ignorant, how can it possibly be MY fault.  

I could blame my parents, but I don't think I could do that without sounding like a whiny bitch that needs to gain everyone's approval through an appearance on Maury Povich.  I might as well be a midget stripper with a crack habit that sleeps around.  

"It ain't my kid, Maury?  YES!  In your face, biatch!  Time to kick it with an 8 ball back at the trailer park and celebrate by boinking some other white trash ho.  See you in 9 months, Mr. Connie Chung!"

Maybe some insight can be gleaned with a little flashback to "back in the day."  Ah, to be back in the simpler times...

When I was a young kid, I loved to play with blocks.  You know... the set included various sized chunks of wood all smoothed down and splinter free and ready for a kid's imagination.  Usually I'd build a complex roadway for my Hot Wheels, or stack up large towers for my action figures to have adventures on.  It was pretty rad.

No, I do not call them dolls.  They are fucking action figures.  The big ones are called stuffed animals, and are not dolls either... no matter how you dress them up, or even if you have tea parties with them.  And, no, that's not an admission of guilt, asshole.  Them's the facts!

Even in the doll world, I think you have to be careful with terminology though.  Barbie isn't really a doll, she's an action figure too.  She has moveable parts, and she really is ready for action.  She's the biggest slut of the Mattel line up (and quite possibly of all toys).  But can you blame her?  If you had a boyfriend that wasn't anatomically correct, you'd be pretty horned up too... especially after 50 years or so without getting anything more than a little light petting and a lot of cold showers in her Malibu dream house.

At least G.I. Joe has the kung-fu grip.  That's gotta count for something.

Back to blocks... The set that I had was a natural wood color, not that bright colored pablum that you see in stores these days.  All I needed was my blocks, my Hot Wheels, and maybe some Lincoln Logs, and I was ready for a full day of entertainment!

Over the years, I tricked out my blocks quite a bit.  Some of them I colored various shades from the big box of 64 crayons (with the sharpener in the back), markers and paint.  And as I got older I actually broke out the caulking gun and permanently affixed parts together for maximum stability.  When you're trying to see how far a die-cast mini '65 Mustang will fly and the jump keeps sliding around, you have to do something drastic!

After the blocks, I moved up to Legos.  Legos really do open up a new world for kids.  Yes, a smaller kid will fuck around building crazy multicolored houses and lego brick turds that are supposed to be dogs and all kinds of fucked up shit.  Hell, I'm sure I did all kinds of crazy crap like that.

I still do.  Though, I've moved away from Legos.

It's the ten year olds that start to feel that urge to build stuff that actually works and looks good.  So they start following the instruction booklet in the Lego Super Space Kit or whatever.  Then they have to get the Moon Mobile Unit (with wheels that have a motor!) and the Solar Panel Satellite Package and the Space Shuttle Deluxe and whatever else the kid needs.  And parents rationalize it because, "They're being creative," or, "It keeps them off drugs," or, "At least they're not bothering me anymore."

And it's at this point that the seed of a problem is planted.

Later, in college, I went to my tiny little dorm room and met my roommate.  He had a great idea.

"Let's get these beds off the fucking floor and build a loft," he said with a smile.

It sounded completely reasonable.  So we bought all the tools and lumber and made a loft for both of our single beds, so we'd sleep heads to opposing walls, toes to toes.  He was  Chad Vila, and I was Pat Vila.  At least that was the stupid fucking joke we repeatedly made as we cobbled together the rickety piece of shit that somehow managed to last all school year.  I think I only bled twice.

The one thing that was really different from my youth was the beer.  That sure did hit the spot after working hard all day.  Of course I was only 18 and I was living on a dry campus, so I had to be doubly sneaky about it.

I built a loft the next year too with my next roommate, having a couple of cold ones along the way.  It was just like playing with blocks with a buzz.  Natural wood and attach them together.  But instead of a cool ramp to watch a soaring mini Micro-Bus, I was building shitty furniture that no one would ever buy themselves.  But, then again, we weren't using a manual.

It all started to go terribly wrong in the late 90's, early 00's, or as my sister called the year 2000, "20 balls."  There was a switch in the economy, and everyone was turning into do-it-yourselfers.

And that was especially apparent in the furniture market.  The idea of build it yourself furniture was so simple!  There were no craftsmen involved.  It was just machines to cut up particle board and laminate it, stuff the pieces into a box and ship it off to market.

And of course there were plenty of technical writers employed to make sure that people could comprehend the directions and be satisfied with the results.  Then again, who the fuck can understand a technical writer?

The directions were translated (and probably poorly done) into German, French and Japanese, and there were plenty of schematic drawings to aid in the confusion about how it all comes together.  Parts were labeled with letters of the alphabet or numbers, at least in the booklet, but rarely on the pieces themselves.  But you had to lay the whole mess on the living room floor, spend 2 hours looking from the manual to the parts... and you found yourself scratching your balls because a) you couldn't figure out the instructions, and it's a good alternative to strangling the dog, b) it felt better than scratching your head, and c) it provided more satisfactory results than that cheap ass end table ever would.

Then IKEA came to town, and we were all fucked.

Now, instead of mildly helpful instructions in English, German, French and Japanese, IKEA decided to do away with all of that and rely strictly on pictures.  Not only that, but they called their furniture and accessories by strange, outlandish names like EKTORP, KVIBY, BEDDINGE MURBO... and using all the fucking crazy letters in your dingbat collection of fonts.  So now not only can we not even put it together, we can't even pronounce its fucking name.

Needless to say, people have been confused ever since.

"Uh, yes... I'd like to return this... whatever you call it... please," says Joe Customer to the IKEA employee after spending 4 hours trying to build a desk and finally giving up in frustration, miraculously without breaking anything noticeable.

"Hur stå det till idag?" she asks gleefully.

"Excuse me?" Joe says, his breath smelling of the half dozen barley pops he quaffed to suppress his rage.

"Du skulle lik till återvanda den har?"  She smiles.

"Huh???" Joe pleads, starting to scratch his balls.

"˙∂߃˚¬∫ß∂©ƒøˆ ∂ˆß¨ƒøˆßœº £§®∂߈ •åπø πßø˙ƒß˜ ˚∆˜√∆˚??" she replies.

Just when Joe is ready to leave, she looks to the security camera quickly and notices it's turned the other way.  She grabs his arm and talks quietly, not moving her mouth.  "Please help," she mutters in her thick swedish accent.  "I am being held captive against my will."

Before Joe can react, her supervisor in a bright blue and yellow jacket comes out and removes her from the register, never to be seen again.  He will never forget the look of abject terror in her eyes.

And it wasn't just IKEA that broke all the rules.  They gave other companies the moxie to join in on screwing everyone right up the ol' poop hole, like Target, Wal-mart and a host of others.  Soon everyone was doing it.  Regular furniture stores were making this shit available too!

For about five years, it seemed like every time I bought furniture it was the same story.  No words, bad pictures, no satisfaction and limited results.  Fuck me!

The tide has turned a little bit for us that have been forced into do-it-yourselfitude.  I went to Target with the wife, and we picked out a six foot tall (media) cabinet/bookshelf.  And it said, "No tools needed!"  

What a crock.

But I unpacked it, opened up the manual expecting a technical writer's bad date in a Pictionary contest, and was surprised by... words!  Not only were they words, but they were English words.  Fuck the Frogs, Krauts, and all the ones that still have a solvent auto industry... English only, assholes!

And, surprisingly, the words on the box were right.  No tools were actually needed to put it together.  However, I found a few taps with a hammer to be helpful from time to time.

But that doesn't mean that it wasn't a bitch to do.  First off, all the little plastic pieces came from a mold, so you had to snap off pieces from the framework, like that time I tried to put together a model car and gave up after about an hour.  I hate that shit.

And again, no tools doesn't mean no work.  Flexing your digits to break off plastic pieces and stick them in particle board with a thin laminate covering that will seriously peel away with the slightest nudge is enough to work up a sweat for me.  And the skin of my fingers was slowly skimmed away from rough edges, pointy plastic parts and trying to exert maximum force with minimal breakage to fit it all together while trying not to drip sweat in the project area.

Of course, both my mother's and father's sides of the family are all serious sweaters.  I always try to laugh it off by saying that my gene pool is deep with sweat, which some smarter folks find clever and some dumb asses find confusing.  But none of that helps when the temperature hits 95 and my face looks like a fucking slip-n-slide.

If it weren't for all the guitar playing I've done my whole life, I don't think my fingers would have survived nearly as well.  If it weren't for the beer, I think I would've broken something on purpose.

And, here's a little tip for all you break-it-yourselfers.  Get a bunch of different colored furniture markers.  You know you're going to fuck up somehow, and it's a great way to cover it all up and make it less noticeable.  And it's as easy as coloring the blocks I used to have.

So, now I've typed out this whole post, my fingers still raw from the weekend.  But who do I blame:  The blocks?  Legos?  Maury Povich?  My parents for buying me all that shit?  My first college roommate?  What's a descendant of a Norwegian grandfather to do?

I'll do what Norwegians do best.  I'll blame the Swedes.

Home Life: Time to get rid of all this shit...

This past weekend, the wife and I were busy with spring cleaning.  No, really.  It's spring!

Spring cleaning has a couple of variations up here in Minnesota.  There's the spring cleaning you do inside as you get ready to turn off your hibernate mode while it's still cold out, and there's outdoor cleaning you rush to do before good ol' Mother Nature decides to take a shit on you again.

Minnesota weather can be pretty fucking fickle.  You gotta be ready for whatever it throws your way.

When I lived with all of those damned dirty hippies in Uptown Minneapolis in the mid 90's, it once snowed on April 29th.  Pretty unusual for snow around these parts... but at least I had plenty of flannel shirts.  I had enough flannel to cover Paul Bunyan.  I had enough flannel to choke his blue fucking ox.

That reminds me.  Early Pearl Jam rocks.

To make sure which type of spring cleaning you might do on any given weekend, there are a number of guidelines to follow.  I don't like to say "rules" since they're not all that strict and I'm not a nazi bastard.  Plus, if I had rules, then I'd probably need to follow them... and who has that kind of energy?

First, you should make sure that it actually FEELS like spring.  So I ran down my check list.

1. Can you go outside without a jacket?  Check.

2. Has most of the snow melted?  Check.

3. Are the five months of dog shit you let pile up in the yard visible and able to be picked up, or is it either stuck hard and fast to the ground or waterlogged?  Ready for pickup!

For those that don't have a dog, you're probably grossed out.  All I'll say in response is... don't judge me, you insignificant pricks!

The Winter Guide of Dog Poop - the pocket field guide I've written, if only in my own skull - clearly states that as long as new snow covers up old shit, you don't have to go on a treasure hunt.  This winter I was very lucky in the way that good ol' Mother Nature helped us out.  Every time it was time to pick up poopsicles, we'd get another blast of the white stuff.

Either that or it was so fucking frigid no one wanted to go outside.  It was a tremendously cold December and January, barely letting us experience highs above zero (that's Fahrenheit, for all you assholes using the metric system).  Why the fuck do I live here again?

When it came to this year's spring cleaning, I was even luckier this time around.  The wife was the one that seemed obsessed with dog shit.  No, she didn't want to wear it as a mask like Hannibal Lecter, you sicko.  She wanted to pick it up off the yard and toss it out.  Hey, man, if she wants to do it who the hell am I to stop her?  Actually, I wouldn't of stopped her even if she wanted to chuck the crap into our neighbor's yard either... at least the neighbor I don't like.

"Here," I said as I handed her a plastic bag.  "Have fun, and don't get any on your face, you crazy ass fecalpheliac!"

She stared at me blankly.

We also did some indoor stuff that we've been meaning to do for... oh, let's just say "years," as it's all been piling up for quite some time.  (Un)fortunately, we have lots of attic space, so we can disappear stuff upstairs all too easily.  Anne Frank would have been jealous.

We gathered up an old leather sectional that had originally been my dad's from circa 1987, and in three trips we managed to donate it to a charity about a mile from our house.  One section was beat to shit, but the others were okay, so we thought we'd give it a shot.  Of course we took the two good sections first.  I didn't want the volunteers turning on us with their arms stretched out to block us.

"Thanks for your generosity," the overbearing, steroid using, linebacker volunteers would grunt out as they pushed us back toward the car, "but we're not really looking for giant pieces of shit to fill our fucking warehouse you ass!"

As soon as we dropped the third section, I got my tax receipt and bolted back to the car and got the fuck out of there before they knew what I gave them.  Score one for me!

Also, in the attic were lots of bags full of old clothes.  These clothes were mainly from the 80's and 90's.  Most were definitely from my skinnier days.  Most were definitely from my college days.  Considering it took me 8 years to get a 4 year fucking degree, that makes sense.

We brought a bunch of them downstairs and spilled them out onto the floor, only to refold and shove back into the bags we got them from.  What a waste of time!

Now, dropping off stuff at Good Will on a Saturday afternoon makes about as much sense as a zipper on a tube top.  I drove in, wife in the passenger seat, and saw a sign for the drive through that wrapped around the back of the building.  

Being a complete idiot, I drove in.

As we drove through the single lane entrance, I started to see the line-up of cars and trucks just waiting to get rid of all their shit.  There were over a dozen that I could see, and no one was moving.

"Fuck me!" I said a little too loudly.

"Well, at least it's nice outside," the wife replied.

I grunted and turned the radio station.  I looked behind us as more cars came in that now blocked us from leaving.  We were stuck doing the asshole shuffle.

I got to thinking about how much of my life has been spent in lines.  Lines for tickets to a show, lines for a ride at the fair, lines for fru-fru coffee at Star Fucks.  

"Yes, I'll have a half-caf skinny no foam latte with a flavor shot and a low fat blueberry hard as a rock scone to shove in my face please!!" I would order.  I've found that saying it excited like that is the only way to get all the words out.  Otherwise I might as well just stay at home and brew a pot.

"No probalo!" shouts back the shiny employee, caffeinated to the gills and shaking like a wet poodle in a snow storm.  "Would you like anything more with your order?!?"

"No fucking way!"  I would sing happily back.  "If I order any more, I'll be broke within the year!"  Then I would casually stroll over to the pickup area and wait some more, trying to bite into my scone, hoping I wouldn't chip a tooth.

The cars moved slowly as the wife and I chatted about this and that.  I was half asleep, but it didn't matter.  We droned on for the better part of an hour until we came around to the other side of the building.

Some hapless idiot helped us unload the dozen or so bags in the back of the family truckster and gave us the receipt.  All of the energy I had earlier that day had been completely drained.

BUT, on the upside, we have a lot less shit at our house now.  No more really old couch, no more clothes we aren't wearing anymore, and no more actual shit.  The dog was so moved that she immediately took a crap in the garden.

Health Care: Feeling a bit Franky...

The absolute first clear memory I have is a doozy.  I was somewhere around three years old.

It was the mid 70's... so imagine a house filled with awful wallpaper, plywood wainscoting, shag carpeting... every last bit of it in the most awful shades - mainly prairie gold, rusty orange, deep brown, and avocado green.  Basically, a big group of designers from around the world all took a massive crap and said, "Oh isn't it DEVINE!"

The only good thing about that color scheme is that you could literally drop anything on it, and you'd never stain the carpet.  Or, even if you did stain the carpet, who the fuck could see it?

"Oh, the dog puked.  No problem!" you'd exclaim as the baby took a shit on the swivel chair, just after throwing Gerber on the walls.  "I'll get all of that on Saturday."

Ahhh... I'm having a flashback to pork chop sideburns, greased back hair and short, wide ties.  And slacks.  How is the word "slacks" not the second worst word in the english language?  The first, of course, is "moist."  If I was ever wearing a pair of moist slacks, I think I'd have to commit hara-kiri just to stop hearing that fucking phrase.  

"Fuck me!" I would scream before disemboweling myself. "And fuck you too," I would whisper just before kicking the bucket, my body slowly being returned to the force.  I often think I'll die really cool like that.  I hope so.  I want to go out like a smack-talkin' Yoda!

I'm surprised more people didn't commit seppuku back in the 70's, given the awful decor and fashion.

So my sister and I were playing football in the living room.  She was five, and I was somewhere around three, and I'm pretty sure the Purple People Eaters were on their way to losing another Super Bowl.  

We were playing with one of those tiny plastic footballs.  This particular football we got at some parade, as I recall.  You know, the local bank had a float and everyone was tossing these tiny footballs with the bank name on it.  

I'm sure everyone on the float was smiling, their pork chop sideburns and wide ties blowing in the breeze.  The parents looking down at their children, watching their little eyes widen as free shit gets tossed their way.  The kids becoming impatient, on the verge of tears, never wanting something so badly before in their tiny lives.

I really wanted that football.  It was yellow and maroon.  It was small, like me, and I would cherish it forever.

At least that's how I imagine the parade -- this isn't the first clear memory I have.  

Now that I'm older and have been in a few myself, I know that's what the kids are thinking.  And if they don't get whatever the hell is being passed out, they cry.  They cry until they upset their parents, and all the parents want is for their kid to shut the fuck up.

Then, after the parade and the kid still has nothing and won't stop bitching about it, the parents give in and go to Toys 'R' Us and spend twenty bucks just to shut the kid's awful face.  Later that day the dog has a slipper in its mouth and THAT'S IT.  The dad starts yelling at Fido and gives it a swift, hard kick in the ass.  Thirty minutes later, Fido takes a chunk out of the mailman's balls to relieve its aggression.  The next day, twenty people are gunned down at the post office, but somehow the supervisor managed to hide in a giant bin, burying himself under letters now covered in blood spatter.

Don't you just love parades?

Somehow we managed to pull off the most brilliant thing ever.  Somehow we got a prized, plastic, piece of shit football with a bank logo on it.  Our family escaped the melee that day at the parade.

Crap.  Now I'm starting to read like Dr. Seuss.

Now, my sister and I devised a way of scoring in our two person game of football.  We set up goals and used the couch on one side and the fireplace on the other as our sidelines.  The real goal was just to escape being smothered by the other as we tried to get past.  We had invented a two-player version of Smear the Queer.

The couch was substantial for a three year old.  Heavy, long... prairie gold and rusty orange pinstripes decorated the otherwise taupe couch, making it look like the inside of a waste water pipe.  And the fireplace was made of large, rough, porous rocks that, at points, jutted out several inches from the wall, as natural stone might do.

And our parents let us play.  It was the 70's.  It was cold outside.

I had the ball.  My sister had been kicking my ass three ways to Sunday, and I was going to score this time.  Fuck yes.  I will score.  I will cheat if I can, die if I must.

I spouted off my quarterback speak the only way I knew how as I gauged the field.  "Hut, hut, hut," I started, eyeing my route.

"Hut, hut, hut, hut, hut, hut, hut."  My sister was starting to tire, I knew it.  

"Hut, hut, hut, hut, hut, hut."  She straightened up and put her hand on her hip and tapped her foot.  How do little fucking girls know exactly what drives guys absolutely bonkers???

"Hut, hut... HUT!"  I faked her out with the hard snap count, and she was pissed.  Now I was fucked.  "HUT!"

I took off, cutting side to side as my sister stretched out her massive, five-year-old arms and followed my moves.  Damn she was good.  The couch route was completely blocked.  I knew it.  She knew it.  She knew I knew it.  Damn she was good.

I had to go monk.

I cut left and launched myself onto the hearth of the stoney fireplace, the only saving grace I had left as my sister charged after me.

That's all I remember.

I had to get a few stitches on my upper lip because my sister got me.  Falling into the porous fucking rock of the fireplace didn't help any.

I've had a few stitches since that time, the most notable being in the top of my foot.  Apparently when you drop a travel mug from the very top shelf onto a ceramic bowl on the counter, chunks of it fly at mach speed.  I was never very good at physics.

Well, after my trip to Key West, I was scheduled to see a dermatologist.  I thought it would be extremely fun to show up right after my skin took a beating in the sun, if nothing more than the scowl I was sure to see on his face.  However, I had that miserable fucking cold... so I had to wait another week.

When I met him, I noted that he was short like Napoleon, but didn't seem to have the complex.  He looked at a cyst in my neck, which was really the reason behind the appointment.  I was self conscious.  I was vain.  But, in my defense, it was pretty fucking huge and showed above many shirt collars.  I don't like freaking people out with my hideous looks.  I prefer freaking people out with my hideous stories.

It's time to see if I can freak you out.

As long as I was there, he also took some samples of other moles and such.  The nurse pricked me with a tiny needle filled with lidocaine, and the tiny doc shaved off the moles.  

I bet you're really happy you're reading this.  I bet you can't turn away.

So, I schedule removal of the thing on my neck, and when I come back I find out the results are back.  The mole on my arm is abnormal, not a keratosis like the general practitioner told me years ago.  What a prick.  Why do fucking doctors think they know everything?

Are you slowing down, anticipating the traffic accident ahead?  Ready to rubberneck?

The nurse shot me full of lidocaine this time with a bigger needle.  I'm okay with pain, it's seeing my own insides that I don't like.

The doc outlined his cuts, first on the neck, then on my arm.  He draws a 2 or 3 inch open S shape in purple marker on my arm, capturing the mole (that's smaller than the width of your standard #2 pencil) between the lines.  

"Whoa.  That's a big incision, doc," I say, trying to be casual.  Meanwhile inside my head the doc is playing the warden in my own special prison, and he's bending me over a railing pulling my pants down.  All I can think of is tossed salad.  I shivered.

"It'll help with the dog ears," he said.

Dog ears?  What kind of deranged de-evolution process have you got planned for me, you sick midget prick fuck bag?

"Good thing chicks love scars," I joked.

"Uh, yeah."  He hated me.  He wanted to put dog ears on my arm.  I was going to be his lab experiment.  And, just think of the earless dog wandering aimlessly around the city!

Which reminds me of a funny line my brother-in-law told me.  We were driving past these tiny houses built on tiny lots in the 50's that didn't have eaves over the front door.  

"Look at those pieces of shit," he said.  "A house without eaves is like a dog without ears."  He was right.

So, I was numbed up and ready to go.  I imagined houses in the busy streets of Richfield, and labrador retrievers with no floppy ears bouncing with their gait.  I leaned back, refusing to look at my arm during the process.

I felt pressure, sure... but thankfully no pain.  He cauterized it before stitching it up, and I could smell the burnt blood, skin and hair.  Meanwhile he talked casually to his assistant.  She was going to hook him up with a friend of hers.  He seemed a little too eager.

What a lonely little man.  Okay, let's get back to ME!

Then it was time for the cyst.  After slicing me open, he started cutting away at the cells with small scissors.  Considering the cyst was just behind my ear, all I could hear was the snipping.  

And with each snip, there was pressure.  With the pressure, I could feel a reverberating pulse through my neck and head.  The snipping grew louder.  The snipping went on forever.

Snip.  Snip. Snip.  

It reminded me of my quarterback experience when I was around three years old, the scissors calling out the snap count.  Er... snip count.

Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. SNIP.  I almost jumped offsides.

Later, the nurse told me how to care for the stitchery.  They were as follows:

1. Leave the bandages on for a couple of days and keep them dry.  No problem.

2. After two days, I could clean them with soap and water, putting vaseline on the stitches before covering them back up.  Again, no problem.

3. No drinking for 2 days.

Excuse me?  It was March 16th.  You mean I have to be sober on the one day when 75% of the world's population gets plowed like a Minnesota driveway in January?  It's MY DAY.  Even says so in the title!  This is the one day where being named Patrick is cool, whereas the rest of the year being "Pat" is completely androgynous and pathetic... I'm so glad Julia Sweeney is off Saturday Night Live.

Fuck me.

They never said anything about not drinking BEFORE the procedure.  And, with the discomfort that comes along with stitches, all I wanted to do was grab a couple of fucking drinks.  I needed to dull the sensation.

So, I looked like a retard with all the bandages on my arm and neck, and I was sober.  I stayed home and sulked.

So far, the recovery process is okay, though I did find out that I shouldn't be playing guitar quite yet.  Maybe I'll come back to this story if something hilarious happens, but if it stays fairly dull I think we'll just play it by ear.

Speaking of ears.  Apparently that Napoleon nazi warden asshole doctor fucked up his own plan and didn't put dog ears on my arm.  See?

I feel a bit like Frankenstein.  Or, as my cousin posted  on my Facebook account, "I prefer the more concise, 'Feelin' Franky,' but then again, people might look at you funny."

Oh yeah, Cuz?  Well, too late for that shit, because when you walk around covered in bandages like the Invisible Man, people stare.  Oh, they stare plenty.

Technology: That two-timing son of a...

I have been having an affair ever since I was twelve.

Someone has given me a certain something special, I believe the French call it, "je ne sais quoi," or some such nonsense.  Those fucking frogs are always making me piss my pants with all the funny shit they say!  I mean, who else would think "whore's ovaries" would be a good snack?  Hillarious!

Anyway, my special person has always given me what I wanted... what I NEEDED... even when I didn't know that I needed it.  Talk about support.  

As far as I know, this person isn't French.  Maybe I should ask.

Let me tell you how my love affair began.  Hopefully that will give you some clarity on the whole situation.  No no... it wasn't some whack job pedophile.  Why are you always thinking about pedophiles?

So... I was twelve.  My world was still fairly new to me.  I didn't understand a lot, but I knew how to set my dad's digital watch, and that son of a bitch couldn't.  He'd sit there for an hour pushing buttons, cursing at this piece of plastic.  Finally, I would come up, press buttons for maybe a minute and be done with it.

"Now stop whining old man!" I would say.  Then I would run.  He was bigger than me after all, and nobody lashes out harder than a whiny bitch that just got faced. 

Hell... At that time I had one of the first portable video games ever.  It was actually a crappy watch with a crappy game on it.  I loved Pac-mania at the time.  However, this crappy watch/game was far from waterproof, and it was claimed by Lake Minnetonka.  

So was the second one.

So... I was twelve.  I walked into my mom's house, and there it was.  The first edition MacIntosh computer.  It sat on the desk, mouse ready, screen on, motors whirring as the machine read the 3 1/2 inch floppy (which was stiff as a porn star's cock, talk about a misnomer).

It was then that I began my lifelong love affair with Steve Jobs.  I actually didn't realize I was in love with him.  But as I grew older and got some perspective, I came to realize he was the object of my affection.

And yes, we drifted apart for awhile while he did other things.  We were on a break!

I met and married the wife before he came back into my life.  By that time, I still had the original Mac, which lasted through three years at college.  But it was replaced by the Mac TV in 1994... a crappy TV built into a black Mac.  But it had a remote, and a cable hook up.  Too bad it also had pixels the size of baby squirrels.

Looking back on it, it reminds me of that fucking watch.

Though, I'm not still buying Pac-watches, and I am still buying Apple products.  I have the original Mac, the Mac TV, a Performa 6400, first gen iBook, 17" PowerBook, 2 G5 towers, 2nd gen iPod (I waited on that one), two 3rd gen iPods, a video Nano, and a partridge in a mother fucking pear tree.

And that's just the old stuff, the stuff I barely use.  Those are decorations, even the ones I keep in the gimp room of the basement.  They are mine, and you can't have them!

They are mementoes from my affair.  I remember the purchase, the rush of emotion and adrenaline.  The nervousness.  My heart beating faster, bowels just on the verge of giving out.  Each purchase made me feel like I was twelve again, walking into my mother's den.

They soothe me, like Catcher in the Rye soothes sick fucking psychos that have never read a good book.

I, however, am not a psycho.  I am just a fan that has oddball fantasies of me macking on a Mac.  Oh wait... you told me to insert my DISC?  Crap.

The most up to date stuff I have are two MacBook Pro laptops and my beloved iGrope.  The wife hates that fucking thing, unless she's playing on it.  Then it all seems to turn around, doesn't it?

It's understandable because I've been secretly cheating on her all these years.  My love is torn in two.  I mean, sure, she has the eternal soul, but Steve... Steve will always have a little piece of me too.  Not to mention all that bloody fucking money.

Well, last night, he got a little piece of my wife.  What a two-timing asshole!

We went over to the big mall by our house, as I had a shirt that I needed to exchange from Christmas.  Yes, Chrstmas goddamn it!  I know, I know... you're all shaking your head from all high, but you don't know how big of a pain it is to actually plan that whole thing.  

First, you have to think, 'I'm going to the mall (not just a particular store) to get something.'  Then you have to think, 'Will I get anything else there?'  THEN, you have to switch to, 'Do I need to do anything else there?'

It's that question that fucks me up all the time.  I never get to it.

Anyhoo... the wife gets the shirt idea in her head, and I play along.  It's about time, right?

We go to the mall.  As soon as we step in, she dives into a restaurant and puts our name in for an hour from now.

"Babe?" I asked.  I call her babe.  It's what I do.

"Babe?" I asked again.  She's partly deaf.  She turned.  

"What the fuck are we going to do for an hour?"  I was stymied.  At the same time, I got an idea.  I remembered the email I got.  I remembered going to the Apple website to see the tutorial.  I got half a stiffie.

We exchanged the shirt, did a little bit of clothes shopping, and headed down the mall.  I told her that we NEEDED to go into the Apple store.  I wanted to see if it was in there yet.

We walked up to the iPod section and looked around, only to find the older generation iPod Shuffle.  Yeah, great.  It's got purty colors and it's small and OMG and all that bull puckey.  Where's the new shit?

"Maybe I should get one of these for working out," the wife said.  It's only $69 for 500 songs, which is more than enough for me. "And it would be better than using the big one [3rd gen]."

"We should ask when it's coming in, and what the price is going to be" I said.  This is a rare statement from me as I HATE asking people for anything... especially directions.  I also hate looking for people to ask.  HATE!

Why is it that when I'm just browsing people are always coming up to ask if they can help while when I want someone they are never around?  I mean Jesus Fucking Christ on a Popsicle Stick!

The Mac folks are all wearing brightly colored shirts.  Construction Cone Orange.  Smurf Blue.  You can't miss these fucking guys.  All of them were busy, and none of them were looking for people to help.  Except the greeters.  They were talking to each other... of course.

So, we walked up to them and asked about the next gen Shuffle, and the guy's eyes became saucers as he leaned forward.  "We have them in the back," he smiled slyly.  "Oh, we have them."  They hadn't even had a chance to put the fucking things on display.

He was twelve again.

"Wait here," he said as he shot off to the back.  He raced back with two small plastic cases with the new Shuffle inside.  One was silver, one was black.  They were both beautiful.  They were both the size of a data suppository.  Maybe even smaller.

Rae's eyes became saucers.  This is unusual for her, as she's not a techie and never has been.  She's had a secondhand lifestyle, getting my cast-offs as I get new shit.  It's been a happy existence for her.  Up until now, that is.

She was twelve again.  If only for a moment. 

All she said after that was, "Black," and whipped out her credit card.  After that, her brain was mush.  After that, her smile shot back the light from her soul.  She was finally first on the block to have a piece of technology, and she loved it.

It's 4GB, for the same price as the 2GB version of the older, more colorful version.  Its controls are on the ear buds, not the body.  The whole thing weighs about the same as a butterfly.  It weighs the same as a hummingbird in flight.

We walked out of that store, and the wife's head was held high.  She looked down on other people.  She's six feet tall, so that's at least somewhat normal.  But there was something different about her.  She was almost giddy.

We went to dinner, Rae telling the waitress all about the new purchase.  The waitress, after writing her name upside down on the table with two crayons, looked down and said that she wouldn't even think it was anything by looking at it.  I just kept staring at the large gap between her huge teeth as I drank from my wine glass.  Where's my Pasta Roni, beeotch?

It was at that point I lost my semi.

It wasn't the gap between her Chicklets either, nor was it the lack of food at the table.  It was the fact that I had been so excited for someone else to get high off the fumes of the Mac store.  I was actually encouraging her to pay me back for all those years I cheated on her.  Fuck.

I wanted Steve and all of his pleasure toys for myself (until I was bored with them, that is), and now the wife was horning in on my action!  

The times, they are a changin'.  Thanks for that one, Obama.  And I thought you were a pretty good guy up until now, asshole.

[editor's note: There may be more coming on this stupid fucking story.  We've loaded up the little thing with a bunch of tunes, but don't know anything about performance of this techie version of the pocket rocket.]

Home Life: I'm getting too old for this shit...

So, here it is... my first blog that has nothing to do with travel.  Here we go...

I realized today that I'm getting older.  I'm not OLD yet, though some of my younger friends would probably try the ol' "Hey, gramps" routine on me.  A word to the wise:  You don't wanna let the tiger out of the cage, man.  I may be older than you, but I can spaz out like nobody's business.

Spring is on its merry way, the snow is melting again (thanks Al Gore for all that global warming, asshole), and I can fully see the asphalt of the streets... though looking at all the dirt and gravel that was under the snow is just beautiful, right?  Especially when it flies into my windshield from other cars' tires.

Ahh.  The beginning of spring in Minnesota.  Ain't it grand?  It smells like a cold, damp rot.  At least the sun's out more and I don't have to wear my giant parka when I go out the door.  Now I grab the slightly lighter weight jacket instead.  Yay.  Anyway...

The reason I know I'm getting old?  Squirrels.  That's right, mother fucking squirrels.  

I want them off my lawn.

And, I think any expert will tell you that squirrels are a gateway pest to kids (thus making the transition complete into old age).  Acting like they own the neighborhood.  Fucking kids.  Wait!!!  I shouldn't state it quite that way... I didn't mean it THAT way, you sicko... I'm no asshole pedophile!

In our neighborhood we have a shit-ton of gray squirrels -- more active now that the weather is warming -- and we have a shit-ton of oak trees too.  And they're dragging their nuts all over my yard.  (Sorry, I couldn't help the obvious joke. I am, after all, a simple man.)  And while grays don't try to get into your house like their red cousins, they do everything to make sure your life is a living hell.

They chatter all the time.  Might as well be a fucking blue jay, the asshole of the bird world.  They run around, taking chunks out of the top of my fence, always rummaging throughout my yard, running in front of cars.  

People actually slow down for squirrels.  These are the people I'm aiming this particular post at.  If you slow down for squirrels, they win.  We can't afford to let them win.  You gotta put 'em in their place people!

Despite what you may think, it will not hurt your car.  Unfortunately, this will not hurt the squirrel population either.  And no one will care.  Honestly, they won't.  And if someone does care, screw 'em.  They can take their bleeding heart and join the furry fuckballs up in the trees for all I care.

And hey, if squirrels are too dumb to get out of the way of two tons of speeding metal, then who's to blame for that?  Listen squirrel, you aren't one of those garbage hoarding, bandit wannabe raccoons now, are you?  

Okay... I can understand it a little if you're with kids and they have a "thing" about running over squirrels.  Though you might as well teach them now that squirrels really deserve it.  Maybe make a game out of it.  

"Hey kids," you yell out from the driver's seat of the minivan, "Wanna play How Many Fucking Street Rats Can I Run Over?" And the kids will squeal with delight as you knock tiny squirrel bones into next week.  

"Go for the record, Daddy!" little Johnny shrieks.

But Jenny, the youngest, is having a difficult time with the game.  She sits in her car seat, staring out the side window, wincing as each squirrel bounces off your bumper.

"It's okay, Jenny," you reassure her.  "God made all these squirrels for us to play with.  It's in the bible, I think."  You smile.  She half smiles back.  

At certain times, you really can't stand Jenny.

She comes around a little, still hesitant.  But when you get two at once that were clearly conspiring to take over the neighborhood, Jenny lets out a big belly laugh, the kind that lasts for days.  You think to yourself, 'I guess Jenny isn't all that awful afterall.'

This is the kind of shit that can really change our world for the better.

Now, if I had my druthers, I would get a wrist rocket and blast every single one of those varmints as they stepped on my property line.  WHAMO!  I'd watch their bodies shoot out into the road, or better yet the neighbor's yard (the one that I can't stand).

"Why?" the squirrels would moan just before they took their last breaths.

Unfortunately, the population density is just a little too dense... in a couple of ways.  I'd have to consider the background with each shot, and I can tell you right now I wouldn't be able to take one shot without a neighbor calling the cops.  Assholes.

I've tried getting the dog to become inspired when she sees the little fuckers.  But, she's a labrador, not a great guard dog.  Hell, she's great at barking like the bejesus when people come up the driveway, but once they've made their way inside she won't do anything except perhaps lick them to death.

"My sisters dogs have killed CATS.  That's cats... with an S!" I screamed at her once.  "What have YOU done other than get your filthy paws in the garbage?"  

She seemed a little sad, but I think it was a ploy.  Her tail was wagging slightly, looking at me expectantly.

"Get out there and earn your keep," I said.  "Go thrash one of those Sciurus griseus until it croaks."  She stared blankly at me.  

"That's latin, dipshit."  Her tail wagged again.

I even thought about getting one of those live traps.  It's basically a metal cage with a little booby trap inside it.  They knock the booby trap, it's game over for the squirrel.

But then I would have to figure out where to dump it.  And hell if it's going to be anywhere near my house.  I'd be better off shipping it UPS to somewhere in Australia.  I'm sure dingoes would love a new menu item.

I don't have that kind of time, nor do I want to spend that kind of cash in shipping when I have at least 4 million little, puffy tails in the vicinity.  

So, what's a guy to do?  No live trapping, no shooting, no vicious dog attacks.  I guess I'll just stick to my game and go for the record.  I'll do it for Johnny, man.

Key West: Reflections of the conch republic...

Now that I've had a little space from the vacation... now that the combination of tan, burn and freckles have faded... now that my stupid, awful fucking cold has returned only to a little congestion... I figured that I would settle it once and for all.  Where would I rate Key West in all of my adventures?  Actually, I'll put it into context of all of the SUNNY destinations I've been.

Here's what Key West offers:

• Great sunsets.  If you love sunsets, you'll like Key West.

• A main street in which you can stumble from bar to bar, or crap shop to crap shop.  It's the same street.

• Lots of people watching if you're in the right place.  Maybe even better if you're in the wrong place.

• Boating excursions.  If you want to get out and explore, that's the way to do it.

Now... I'll try to take out the people factor a little to try and weigh all my worldly exploits.  Here's how I would rate my top sunny destinations...

1. Australia.  No shit, really?  You mean I actually ENJOYED traveling in a plane for a day or more to go halfway around the world only to land in a foreign destination where they spoke... English?

Don't be an idiot.  Of course I did!  The entire trip I didn't have to worry about drinking the water, learning a language, or feeling like I was an outcast.  I was actually one of the cool people because I was the one with the accent.  And the whole country smells like a toned down Pier 1.  The entire time I was there, I wanted to buy wicker furniture and candles made by children in India and Viet Nam.

Oh, and the wine is so superior to most of the crap we drink in America.  And it's fairly cheap!

That's not to mention the beautiful countryside, great coastal views, and amazingly friendly people.  And when we flew from Sydney to Melbourne, going through the airport was like stepping back in time to the mid 90's.  No intense security, no lines... hell, people didn't even start to show up for their flight until ten minutes before boarding!  I felt like an idiot showing up 90 minutes early.

2. Norway.  Another amazing country with incredible views and extremely friendly folk.  I was only 14 when I went there, but I will always remember it.  And I think the only reason why I put it as #2 on this list is because it's been such a long time since I visited.  That, and even in the middle of July that place can be fucking chilly.

The Fjords are one hell of a thing to see in person though.  Steep hills plunge into the cold waters to form these crazy inlets from the sea, some stretching for over a hundred miles.  And my favorite town  was at the end of this fjord, called Flåm.  I still think about it from time to time.

We (my mom, sis and I) traveled up and down that country... by train, boat, plane and automobile.  Oslo, Bergen, Trondheim, Bødo... connecting with relatives along the way.  If you are of Scandinavian decent, I strongly suggest you take a trip back to the motherland.  It's spectacular.

Sorry, no drinking exploits on this trip to talk about.  What do you want?  I was FOURTEEN for crying out loud.

"Not sunny?" you ask.  In July, the sun rises at two o'clock in the mother fuckin' a.m after setting well past 11pm.  Don't tell me about sunny.  Just because they don't see the shiny orb for a few months out of the year doesn't mean that's when you GO there.  Moving on!

3. Costa Rica.  And it wasn't just because it was my honeymoon.  This place was completely different than any place I had ever been before.  It could have been mars.  Hell, it might've been.  And for a getaway trip (and I mean escaping everything here: language, people, weather, etc.), this trip is #1.

It was hot and humid, all the time.  I almost sweat to death while in a shop with zero air circulation in Ja
co.  I physically touched the sun.  But the beaches were fabulous, and it was extremely easy to find a beach that was completely empty as far as the eye could see.

The roads were absolutely the worst things I have ever ridden on -- or ridden around in many cases.  The road was literally filled giant potholes, some large enough for a cow to lay down in.  For most of the coastal road, we drove two tires on, two tires in the ditch.  And at about 20 mph.

The rain was incredible.  At around 4:00pm, the clouds would come in.  By 6:00 it was raining sheets of water.  What do you want?  It's a fucking rainforest.  

Watch out for the monkeys though.  They are real assholes down there.

4. Maui.  I didn't have to pay for it... I was a teenager, and my dad paid the bill on this one.  Free trip to Maui?  Hell yes!

Maui is everything you'd expect.  Lush plant life, bikinis, snorkeling (in my opinion, the best reefs in the US can be found in Hawaii), t-shirt shops, surf boards... lots of tourist shit.  It's a lot like Florida in many ways, except a ton more colorful and there are fewer theme parks -- and fewer rednecks.  And fewer assholes too, as there are no monkeys.

But I won't pull your knob on this one.  Hawaii is expensive.  It was when I was a teen, and it is now.  If you can afford a trip there, though, I highly recommend it.

5. 6. 7. Now... the next three I lump together.  They are all similar in many ways, though they are distinctly different.  New Orleans, Cancun, and our most recent trip -- KEY WEST.

They are all pretty laid back, and all love heavy drinking.  If you don't like drinking, get the fuck out.  If you're on the wagon, stay the fuck out.  If you're too cool for school, keep the fuck out.  They don't want you.  You are boring, and you won't spend any money doing body shots off of complete strangers.  

You won't make the same bad mistakes (and bad impulse buys) they expect out of everyone else.  "OMG, I NEED THIS!" is often exclaimed by some drunk that wanders into one of the many crap shops as they grab a XXL t-shirt with a skinny, bikini clad body spray painted on its front.

They all are geared towards tourism.  New Orleans falls behind slightly in this category (and I haven't been there since before Katrina hit), but makes up for it with great pockets that keep tourists like a roach motel.  Cancun exceeds in this category because it was built for the express purpose of attracting tourists.

Key West is actually a good compromise between the two.

Whereas New Orleans is a large metropolitan city and Cancun is lined with giant hotel after giant hotel, Key West manages to find a good middle ground, keeping smaller hotels near tourist attractions, bars and restaurants, etc.

Where Cancun has lots of beaches (though not as many right after Hurricane Wilma) and New Orleans has none (not in February anyway!), Key West has a couple of great looking beaches (a major pain in the ass to get to from some places if you're walking, however).  Though, seriously, you need to get some aqua socks or something as the ground is mostly coral.  If you really want to get in the water though, go on a boat.

Cancun does offer fabulous and exotic day trips to see Mayan ruins.  Chichen Itza was awesome.  But don't go to Xel-Ha unless you want to support one of the worst tourist traps I've ever been to in my entire life.  That place made me sad.  

Key West offers a fabulous (though less exotic) day trip as well.  See for yourself.

The main distinctions is between their mascots.  Key West has the pirate.  Cancun has the whole Mayan thing.  New Orleans has Brad "am I a vampire or am I a guy with a broken watch" Pitt.

The bottom line is this:  All three are touristy to the nth degree.  All three make a majority of their income from tourism.  Are they worth it?  If you're looking for a care-free time, sure.  If you're there with friends, definitely.  But if you're looking for intellectual stimulation, historical tours, or anything that doesn't involve you getting bombed out of your gourd at some point... keep the fuck out of these places.  Sure you can do it, but you'll be annoyed by all the drunks.