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.
