PEST FEST [b!]: The Ride Home (Part 2)

(Ed. Note: Part One is here.)

So I make it out of Wyoming into South Dakota, and it's the middle of the afternoon and it's hot and I've been drinking this 3 liter jug of water just to keep from dying so of course I have to take another leak. Like real bad. Luckily the South Dakota Visitor's Center is just inside the border so I stop and make a dash for the bathroom because I have to go so bad that I'm practically pinching my peen like I'm a 4-year old kid.

I walk in the door and I'm immediately assaulted by the old volunteer couple working the front counter: "Welcome to South Dakota! Where you from? Where you headed to? Do you need a map?" Christ, it's like if these two gam-gams don't find out every little piece of information about me that very instant they're going to die or something. Within about 22 seconds I learn that the old guy used to teach at a prison in Oregon, and the old lady loves steak and is recommending places to eat in Rapid City. 

I couldn't get a word in edge wise, and all I want to do is book a leak! It's like these two are so starved for conversation like I'm the first person they've seen in about a decade. Swear to God, if I ever retire and say that I want to volunteer at some visitor's center, just shoot me dead right there.

So after I go to the bathroom I feel like I need to talk to them a little or else they'll commit suicide or something, so I ask the guy to recommend the best way to get to Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse. He says that I could continue on 90 and get off at some exit, but that he'd recommend the scenic route, so I oblige. 

What a load of horseshit that was. What the old guy failed to mention during his painfully detailed description of Route 385 is that it is some crappy 2-lane highway full of bullshit tourist trap towns and that I'd likely get stuck behind some cement mixing truck (which, no joke, I did) and that what could have been a 40-minute excursion to Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse turned into a 2-hour ordeal. 

And I'm sure the old coot wanted me to stop in one of these towns for some special "black hills taffy" or some crap like that to support the local businesses because he probably gets some kickback for every sucker like me who stops in. Swear to God, if I ever see that old guy again I'll show him What's. 

Fast forward about 90 minutes and I finally make it to the Crazy Horse Memorial. Not to be a dick or anything, but what a load of crap that is. They charge you $10 to get in, and all that does is get you is admittance to the Visitor's Center, which is a full mile away from the face of the mountain and has all the usual tourist bullshit - Native American crafts and photos and a concession stand and stuff. You can look out the big picture window and see the progress of Crazy Horse, but it is pretty much the same view from the highway. If you want to get a closer look of the Monument, you need to take a shuttle bus which is another 4 bucks. Total scam. So I snap a photo or two and get the hell out of there. I mean, how many Dreamcatchers can I guy look at, anyway?

So the moral of this story is if you want to go see Crazy Horse, don't bother paying the 10 bucks and going in. Just pull your car over to the roadside and snap a photo that way. And under no circumstances stop into the South Dakota Visitor's Center because the old guy will just convince you to take the long way where you'll die of boredom.

Tune in next time where I tell you about Mt. Rushmore. Another load of crap, that one is.  

PEST FEST [b!]: The Ride Home (Part 1)

This is what a large part of Montana looks like. Thrilling, isn't it?

Ed. Note: As [Cherry] is still mentally on vacation, he'll be (once again) channeling Holden Caulfield to help write the next few posts. Enjoy.

So for some reason I thought it might be a fun bonding experience for me and Edmund to drive all the way from Portland to Chicago. What a load of crap that was. Swear to God, there are phonies and idiots everywhere in this country, not just in the major metropolitan areas.

Like on my first travel day Edmund and I decide to drive until we get tired. So around 1:30 in the morning I'm driving through some God-awful town in Montana called Rocker (just try to find it on a map) and the only place to stop is a Flying J Truck Stop so I pull into the parking lot in the back where there are a bunch of other cars with people doing the same thing as me. So I pull up next to another car and the guy in the driver's seat is awake and looks at me and asks, "So you're sleeping here too, huh?" What a ridiculous question. What the hell else would I be doing here, you idiot? Swear to God, it was like the guy wanted to cuddle with me he wouldn't shut up and all.

And then the next day I'm stopped at another rest stop (still) in Montana to take a leak and this old guy comes up to me and asks me all about Edmund and gas mileage and blah blah blah. And the whole time he's talking to me he's gnawing away on this apple. Just going to town on this thing. As if he didn't finish eating the goddamn apple that very minute he was going to die of starvation or something. God, I can't stand people like that. You can't put the apple down for a second when you're having a conversation?

And then he asks where I'm heading and I say Chicago and he says to me: "Oh, my wife and I just came from there and we had a miserable experience."

Huh? A miserable experience? I can think of lots of places that are miserable -- Port Arthur, Texas? - Miserable; Zacatecas, Mexico? - also Miserable. But Chicago? Gimme a break, asshole. I mean, why would you tell someone from Chicago that you had a miserable time there? What a douchenugget.

What I wanted to say back to him was, "Yeah, I can relate. I'm having a miserable experience just standing here watching your ass-face power through that apple, you asshole!"

And you can tell the guy was just jonesing for me to ask him exactly why he and his wife had a miserable experience in Chicago but I was having none of it. At this point I wanted to just get the hell out of there and away from all those phonies.

And speaking of miserable experiences, come back later this week to hear about South Dakota and Mt. Rushmore. What a bunch of bullshit that was, I tell you.

PEST FEST [b!]: The New Car

Cheerio.

I'm Edmund, and I'm [Cherry's] new car. The [Cherry] Ride's new cherry ride, if you will.

He's asked me to guest blog for him because the bloke's too busy to do it himself, apparently. What, with all the running around eating and drinking and socialising. He gets up in the a.m., comes round to pat my bonnet and wish me a Good Morning and then he's off on his bicycle (and what is the point of that, I ask you?) and then I don't see him until the evening -- and even then he's usually right pissed. I see more of his dishy mate Shauna than I do of him, actually. It's bollocks.

He finally got around to picking me up from the dealer this past Friday, after putting a down payment on me over three weeks ago. Thought the pisser had forgotten about me, but then here he was and boom! here I am.

We've had a few good times so far, but not sure this whole thing is going to work out so well. Sure, he treats me right, like a good owner does, but he's a bit of a pansy, methinks, with all this "I love you, Edmund" chatter. Off his trolley, that one is. I mean, shut up already and take me for a drive down the Coast if you truly love me.

He spends more time with the bike than me, and he's purchased some awful skateboard and is trying to get good enough with it to take that around as well. (But considering he can barely stand on it, I think it will be years before he'll be going anywhere. Besides, he was practising the other morning and went arse over elbows on it -- he'll be dead before too long!)

And to be honest his taste in music is shite. Absolute crap. He says it is because the stations in Portland are no good, but I've had to listen to him belt out some God-awful bloody Celine Dion or something (he asked that I not repeat that, actually). He's barmy!

He also goes on and on about his last car, called Simon, and how I have big shoes to fill and blah, blah, blah. Complete rubbish. I am my own car and won't be compared to anyone. Besides, I'm strong(er), fast(er) and quite rakish. Devilishly handsome. And I've got both a sun and a moon roof - I'm quite stylish.

Alrighty then, enough for now. Apparently in two weeks I'll be driving [Cherry] back to Chicago -- you know: stretching my legs, showing him what I'm made of and all that. Which will be just fine, unless his taste in music doesn't improve.

PS - for those of you tossers thinking that Edmund is the name for some fat kid who wears glasses and eats paste, Piss Off! I'm the dogs!

The [C]R Interview: 6 Questions with Classy & Fancy

Yes, the much-missed 6 Questions Interview is back this week, with Ms. Classy & Fancy boldly stepping up to the plate.

I started reading Classy's blog about two years ago, immediately drawn to her wit and love of pandas, Anderson Cooper and Monchichis. But when she revealed that one of her all-time favorite words is ointment, well, I was hooked.

Since then, we've crossed over to the dark side and become friends in real life, starting the award-winning* Liar's Club (with Niner and Dr. Ken); we've hung out at Lollapalooza and Smith's Night at Danny's, and she's (kinda) witnessed me vomit. We're tight.

Classy is also going to learn me the Little Superstar dance moves, which she once revealed at a St. Patty's Day party and brought the room down.

PS - It is Her Birthday today too!

So let's get to it:

1. True or False: It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp. False. You’re all good as long as you keep your pimp hand strong, have the right mixture of ladies (maintain an open market) & don't have to compete on Wayne Brady's turf.
2. Song Played at My Funeral? The song I want played at my funeral is Sandstorm by Darude because it is one of the most ridiculously awful songs I’ve ever heard, but when played will be sure to make people laugh and possibly do some weird club/euro dance moves. Also, I’ve been known to do a wicked impersonation of it accompanied with some stellar club moves circa 1993. I’d like for that to be the parting memory of me.
3. Name three actors/actresses who will play you in the movie biopic of your life, ala I’m Not There: The Early Years: Ke Huy Quan (of Short Round and Richard “Data” Wang fame) and I would make him say “Indy, Cover Your Heart!” I would also have to give some halfsies/hapas some work: Meg Tilly (don’t get her confused with her high pitched, buxom sister, Jennifer, maybe this movie will be the one to get her out of retirement); Maggie Quigley (she was in Balls of Fury, I think she could use the help).
4. If you could change one thing about yourself, it would be…? My inability to finish a book in the last two years, I blame HGTV & HDTV.
5. Fill in the blank: A ________ is not a _________. A refrigerator is not a food closet.
6. Word Association: Donut? Holes, Shia Labeouf (that’s three, sorry).
   

* Award for being the most awesome blog ever.

PEST FEST: Randoms

One week into PF[b!] and things are good.

The rikety old bike that I'm borrowing for my stay is a nasty old bitch of a bitch and I'm not a fan. It is like trying to pedal a lawnmower. I'm on the handlebars even when I'm going downhill. And every evening I have a big hill to climb. It is Total Bullshit, but since I'm sauced most evenings for the ride home, I am surviving.

I purchased a skateboard yesterday. Hilarity will ensue, and stories will be posted shortly.

I am potentially merely a few short hours from being an uncle.

People are really starting to buy the Olympic Fencing Team line. So much so that I'm thinking of taking it up. Or at least reading up on it so that I know what the hell I'm talking about.

Somebody handed me a mango fruit popsicle yesterday afternoon while I was walking down the street. I love this town. (It was wrapped.)

No "Fuck Off Friday" today, but for all of you haters out there, "6 Questions" will be back in all its glory next week.

Gotta go. July is over and I am ready to Rip August a New Asshole.*

* and you can interpret that any way you want.