Saturday, August 11, 2012

One Direction and Dead Fish

I had the opportunity to travel all across my home state of California this summer. I also traveled to Chicago, but people only talk, or write, about stuff when they want to complain. I immensely enjoyed the windy city, so I’ll leave it out. Its only downfall is its close proximity to Nebraska. Well, Chicago is closer to Nebraska than California is, so therefore—close proximity. Now I’ve previously stated that I don’t have anything against Nebraska, I’ve never even been to the Cornhusker state, or Grassy-field state, or Field-mouse state, or whatever its nickname is. That is I never had anything against it until now. You see, I didn’t think there were lakes or streams in that place, I figured they got their moisture from tobacco juice being spit on the soil then harvested by saliva gathering combines. But, behold, I saw a news story that said every single fish in Nebraska died this summer. I guessed that had to be around 8 fish from somebody’s tobacco juice aquarium. Apparently I was wrong. Now I do have a problem with people turning against fish and the wholesale slaughter of our ichthyoid friends. They’re fish, not wasps, leave them alone. All they do is swim, eat, poo, and mate. Replace the swimming with walking and that’s all people really do. Just give a fish legs and an iPhone and they become people. I was trying to figure out why people would want to mercilessly beat a fish to death and then I remembered they are Nebraskans and they have moral objections to mating. So that’s it. They must’ve had enough of fish fornicating in their limited water supply. Hold on a sec… What’s that? Hottest summer ever, drought, lakes and rivers drying up? Okay, so just forget what I said about beating fish to death for gettin’ it on.
[BTP] During my travels around California, I concluded that every, highway, freeway, expressway, interstate, avenue, street, road, boulevard, cul-de-sac, alley, path and cattle trail in the state is under construction. As I have previously stated, the traffic in California is, what I would call, constipated. I’m not talking just, oh that took a little work, constipated, but full on, pass me the glycerin and enema, constipated. So, when every possible path has the ‘Roadwork Ahead’ signs out, the traffic becomes a complete bowel obstruction. This wouldn’t be so bad, except for one thing: Aquafina. For those of you who don’t know, or who aren’t fool enough to spend your money on something that comes out of the tap at home, Aquafina is a bottled water company.
I purchased my bottle of Aquafina in a mini-mart in a toilet-town. You know the towns, the ones that don’t appear to have any other industries other than fast-food chains and a waste water treatment facility. [btp = mini ‘back to point’ as I didn’t stray too far]Aquafina bottled water company has decided to become eco-friendly and now makes their bottles out of plastic-cling-wrap. To make matters worse, Aquafina fills the bottles to the absolute top and puts the caps on so tight that you need vice-grips to assist in opening the bottle. As my wife drove, listening to her choice of music, which happened to be One Direction, followed up by Celine Dion, I gave the bottle what for. *As a side note here, the combination of One Direction and Celine Dion = Testosterone loss. Not just a little bit of naturally occurring hormone reduction, I’m talking about a complete loss of all things male. Within the span of six minutes I grew boobs. Not moobs, but fully lactating breast. I had the urge to watch The View, shave my legs, and read People magazine. (Okay, that wasn’t fair to People magazine, because, what guy hasn’t picked up his wife’s or girlfriend’s People while sitting on the hopper?) [BTP] I was stuck in the car with the sound of a plaintively whining androgynous teen-boy band, followed by Celine’s mournful wailing. However, I was not without options. The first would have been to cast myself from the vehicle, but being as how we were driving on the one 10 mile stretch of highway in all of California where there was no road construction going on, and because, when on the open road, my wife believes if her calculations are correct, when this baby hits 88 mph…you’re gonna see some serious shit, that meant almost certain death if I were to bail out. In hindsight, that may have been the better alternative to my new occupation as wet-nurse. The second was to stab my eardrums with pointy things, but I didn’t have any pointy things other than my freshly budding bosoms. [BTP] You know… scratch that BTP. Because I believe if it hadn’t been for the estrogen enhancing music combo, I would’ve been able to open the Aquafina bottle, or, at least, had less trouble with it. As it was, I gripped to the plastic-wrap bottle too tight while struggling with the cap and squeezed its contents out and onto my lap. Needless to say, I spent the remainder of the trip with wet panties. Yes I said ‘panties,’ because the feminine power of One Direction and Celine Dion caused my boxers to become women’s undergarments.
I have since begun a testosterone restoring treatment plan of listening to AC/DC, beating my neighbors with a hockey stick, and wearing my old work-boots. The progress is slow, but it’s coming along wonderfully. Wonderfully? Maybe it’s not going so well? Ah crap! Barry Manilow is on the radio. Now I’m PMS-ing.  

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