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ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

5 Jan

DIDN’T WE JUST TALK ABOUT THIS?

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Let’s Heart to Heart.

5 Jan

Can we talk about Gilligan’s Island?

A Hotbed of Rousing Debate

What was the sex situation on the island?

I hope just an all-out dick-fired sexferno.

Did someone say Sexferno?

After food and shelter, and the knowledge that whatever the Professor came up with would promptly be fucking decimated by the Gillgs, what did they have left to do? They were clean, healthy, and safe. Basic needs met, now let’s get to the good stuff.

There were more men than women, which creates an evolutionary situation of cock-slappery-in-facery.

 

Write your own caption.

I imagine that every Tuesday, they threw their names in a coconut and drew. Everyone wanted Ginger or Maryann, sure, but Lovey had been around the block a time or two–bitch knew how to please a man. Last man out got stuck with a buttered coconut for the week.

Or maybe it just devolved into a crazy orgy every single night, like Lord of the Flies, but instead of bugs, they meant jeans flys. And instead of Piggy getting killed traumatically in the end, Maryann got rugburn.

Short Straw gets the shackles.

But surely that old, grizzled Skipper had approximately 67 STDs floating around at any given time. But that wouldn’t have stopped anyone trapped on an island for many years with no chance of rescue. Why not take a chance? Isn’t syphilis-crazy at least a more interesting way to go?

The Face of Gonorrhea

Or was it just a giant harem? Was Gilligan the master of it all? Did he purposely destroy all the inventions of Maryann and Professor because they were trying to escape Gilligan’s hold on them and their hormones? Was it sexual trapping that drove their minds towards freedom?

Was Gilligan a Wang-Tyrant?

Cocky Bastard. HAH!

This is where my mind goes most days. This is a terrible way to think.

Noa Gavin Presents: Games for Boring Meetings

15 Dec

Have you even been stuck in a meeting, the likes of which make you want to sizzle your corneas with a butane torch to have something to do? Well, friend, me too!

I mean, haven’t we all? Lucky for you–I’ve found many games that one can play to assuage your growing hatred for humanity without letting your boss know you’re not listening to any part of the “game changing plan”!

Game 1: George Bush Mouth

You Need: A mouth, a window/mirror, and a sense of danger.
How to Play: This game needs to be anticipated prior to the meeting. Place yourself near a window or mirror. Furrow your brows as if you’re thinking very hard, then, try to make your mouth as small as you can possibly make it, using all the dimensions of space! It’s good to start using a pencil/pen in your mouth, to give you a goal to shoot for! Even if you get caught, you look Uberfocused!
If this is the first time you’ve played, then make sure no one else can see your dumb ass. The more experienced you get–the more fun it is to fuck with people! Extra points if you have a companion to compete with. Whoever has the most anus-similar mouth when asked a question by a superior WINS!

Game 2: Space Invaders

You Need: A wheelie chair for Roundtable, a stationary chair for Classroom, a sense of comedic timing, a history of drinking games
How to Play: In either setting, you’ll need a “Trigger Word,” appropriate to the tone of the meeting.
Examples:
Safety Training: “Hazard.”
Sexual Harassment Seminar: “Inappropriate, or Touching”
CPR Certification: “Chest.”
Motivational: “Goal.”
Classroom Style Meeting: Position yourself in the flunkie row. Assume the “I’m Interested In This Company’s Future” posture–lean forward, pen on paper. When you hear the Trigger Word, move forward an inch. Keep doing so until you are crotch to ass to the person in front of you.
Roundtable Style Meeting: Leapfrog! Every time you hear the Trigger Word, quickly zoom around the person to your left. Can you make it back to your original spot by meeting’s end? YOU LOSE, MOTHERFUCKER, YOU WORK IN A DEAD-END JOB!
Space Invaders is also fun to play with a friend. Choose separate Trigger Words and RACE!

Game 3: Table Bangers

You Need: To have a FANTASTIC rack, an obscenely low-cut shirt, a pen
How to Play: Pull down your shirt, show a little bra (or some nip, if you’re daring enough) and tally mark the Wang Bangs you hear on the conference table! Game can be played in rounds, for a longer meeting–simply change-up the way you display your water coolers while taking a blazer-straightening break in between.

Noa Gavin’s Guide to Holiday Gifting: Go Fuck Yourself Edition

29 Nov

There are people in the world that you don’t like. Don’t fucking lie to me–you don’t like them. Could be your in-laws, could be your Aunt, could be a co-worker, but any way you slice it, you’d rather harangue a macaque than see them.

Lucky you! They’re on your Christmas list!

You’ve already sent them a shitty card. But it’s time for something real. Something tangible.

Something that says without a doubt, “Go Fuck Yourself.”

1. Never Smile at a Monkey (Only $10.88!)

It’s long been known that an easy way to piss off friends with kids is to purchase them a noisy toy. That way, anytime they get a splitting headache from the endless appeals of a plastic Dora (“Can you say, Hombre? VERY GOOD.”) they know exactly how you feel about them.

These days, so many toys are noisy. For fuck’s sake, almost every toy my nieces own makes some kind of horrible noise.

Skip that noisy shit and go straight for the source–Psychological Warfare. Give their children nightmares, and they’ll never be able to repay you.

Never Smile at a Monkey is filled with such delightful prose as, “Never Harrass a Hippopotamus. They kill more people in Africa than any other wild animal,” and, “Never Jostle a Jellyfish. If you are unlucky enough to become entangled with a box jellyfish, you will die very quickly.”

Sweet Dreams.

2. Poopsenders.com (about $20-$35 dollars.)

(Picture not included here because that’s fucking gross.)

Nothing says, “Go Fuck Yourself,” like a gallon of anonymous Gorilla shit.

You can choose between cow, elephant, and gorilla, in any one of 2 convenient sizes.

That co-worker that’s a shithead? A gallon of elephant will do nicely.

Your shitty ex-boyfriend? Quart of cow, please.

3. John Wayne 3-D Cuckoo Clock ($200 motherfucking dollars.)

I can only hope instead of saying, “CUCKOO!!” this clock just shouts, “PILGRIM,” over and over again to toll the hours.

Found in SkyMall (who else would carry this?), this magical timepiece features The Duke twice over. Make sure to get the replacement plan for your recipient’s benefit–you’ll want to immediately replace it when someone mysteriously takes an axe to it.

It would be even better to not wrap this, and just weld it to the wall in the home or office of your Secret Santa, that way, they can enjoy True Grit anytime!

I just realized that the numbers are backwards. Really, SkyMall? Couldn’t take the time to press, “mirror image”? You’re charging me $200 for this, the picture better be presentable.

I just. I have no words for how perfectly strange this is.

Panic Attack Tuesday.

23 Nov

Fuck.

I’m buying a house.

Okay, well, Adrian and I are wanting to buy a house. A loft. A small one.

We’re self-employed.

I heard your collective gasps, those who have bought a home before me. For those who haven’t–beware. Buying a home while self-employed is like trying to put mascara on a giraffe. Sure, you can do it eventually, but it’s going to take some serious shit to get there. Hope you brought your ladder and come-a-longs, ho, that Revlon is in for a fucking ride.

While, yes, fundamentally, I understand this is not the Bank’s fault, and the fact that a good 1/3 of the country being in foreclosure makes it more difficult for anyone to get a loan, it’s equal parts frustrating and baffling. Though we make good money, are not looking for anything even close to 100% financing, and have excellent credit, we have not been employed in the same city for 2 years.

To the banks, this means we are heathens. We’ve already been rejected by two.

It’s also sending me into an OCD Anxiety Meltdown.

We’re in the final stages of underwriting. Leading up to this, we’ve turned in P&L’s, Taxes, Affidavits of Credit Checking (as Adrian’s car was stolen 2 months ago and we’ve placed a trace on his Social Security Number for now), Utility bills, Inspection Reports, and the tears of Guatemalan children saddened by the plight of the mayfly.

This is getting a bit like the whole TSA debacle. Yes, I fundamentally understand the need for the nudie pictures and the crotch groping, but I also understand now what it’s like to be on this side of it. A little crotch grope here, a tit squeeze there, and BAM. You’re a terrorist. The bank’s doing a hell of a job running their hands over Adrian’s crotch, but we won’t get to end this little bump and grind with a vacation.

I understand why Adrian and I are considered risky in the eyes of the Bank, especially considering the loan environment, but it’s painfully embarrassing to consider yourself ‘blessed in the self-employment area’ and for banks to tell you no.

We’re supposed to find out tomorrow if we get it. We’re also supposed to close tomorrow.

We’re supposed to be out of our apartment, house or not, by next Wednesday, because we’re tired of living in a place where the cops told us, “You should move. Soon. It’s not safe here,” when Adrian’s car was stolen.

I have not packed a single box. Neither has Adrian. We’re not even trying to. We have no immediate plans to do so. We come home every night as though we’ve never even considered moving.

We’re both fucking terrified. It’s like this isn’t even happening–we’ve been in a state of limbo and self-induced impending homelessness for a month. We’re both just ignoring the fact that we HAVE to move no matter what, for fear that if we start packing, we’ll get our hopes up and the Bank will notice and rain down rejection from the heavens like so many fearsome thunderbolts.

Half our shit is still in boxes from the last time we moved. But we have no truck with which to move. We have no tape. We are unprepared and I am scared to fucking death.

Our realtor even got a notification about a loan for a customer he does not have. That man was approved.

An imaginary man was approved faster than we.

In one week, it will mark the 16th time I have moved in 12 years. Adrian has, barring a house in college, lived in one home growing up. The jealousy of that kills me.

While ‘home is where the heart is,’ and family is what matters in making a home, I want a real home for once. I want a place that’s all ours. I want a place where I can paint the way I want to, and live how I please, and sit on my balcony and be peaceful and come HOME to a HOME. I’ve moved so many times that houses are flippant objects, to be discarded and unremembered as you bounce from one to another, temporary places for your stuff. I’m tired of that.

I want Adrian to say to me one day, “I’ll be home soon,” and know it means something bigger than a shitty apartment where I happen to be.

Sometimes, I’m not funny. Sometimes I’m terrified. And embarrassed. And procrastinating.

 

Update: Since this post, we have not closed. We have been notified, however, that Fannie Mae will probably not let us move into the loft, even though we were approved for it, because the HOA is under quite of bit of interesting litigation. We have packed all of our stuff, and are in the process of unpacking it or putting the boxes into closets so we no longer live in a UHaul maze. Though we will probably not get the house, it’s under good terms–if the HOA is in trouble, we don’t need  the place.

Slow Down, Speed Kills! (Or, it’s hilariously awesome)

9 Sep

Read This.

YES. This is amazing.

Canada, in all it’s glory, decided that it was a much better idea to slow drivers down with the image of you, “blasting into a child,” (which was a great word choice, Yahoo!News) than it was for drivers to eff up a killer suspension.

Some basic issues associated with this:

Image Credit: Yahoo!News

  1. What happens to the poor people who drive those roads often and are then conditioned to the response of, “child in road with ball is fake?” Forget the old argument that media breeds violence–Canada’s roads are conditioning sociopaths.
  2. People who can’t process optical illusions will be scarred for life. Or, as Canada’s expert says, “they shouldn’t be driving in the first place.” Whoa, sir, that’s a bit extreme. That’s like saying, “those who are colorblind may not buy clothing.” A big ‘ol Fuck Off to slightly disabled people.
  3. Can you imagine the accidents this thing could cause, with people halting to a sudden stop , and immediately exiting their cars to check on the welfare of the child?
  4. Canada hopes people will laugh off the image before passing right over her. Canada, death isn’t funny. What’s wrong with you?
  5. PAVEMENT PATTY, CANADA? I realize that you’re trying to give her a female name, but PATTY? As in, ROADKILL PATTY? It’s a double entendre of awesome.

But, Canada needs to get more creative. Drivers are going to be conditioned to Patty. They’ll need something more, something–unexpected. Of course, seeing as how I can solve all of Canada’s problems, I have the following suggestions.

Now, here’s how Canada hopes people react to the suggested speed bumps, “Haha, silly Canada! I’ll be slowing down, eh?”

In reality, it’s going to go something like this:

Image Credit: Julian Beever

“MOTHER OF GOD, THAT IS A GIANT VAIO I AM ABOUT TO RUN OVER! TURN THE FUCKING WHEEL, HANK!”

Image Credit: Julian Beever

“Who puts a pool on I-40? Jesus Christ TXDOT.”

Image Credit: Julian Beever

“IS THAT JOE BIDEN? WHAT IS HE DOING IN ALABAMA? WHY IS HE FALLING INTO A PIT?”

And, my personal favorite…

Image Credit: Kurt Wenner

“OH MY GOD HELL HAS OPENED UP ON 635! Swerve, Martha, swerve! We’re all gonna die!”

I think people would slow down, versus being plunged into the depths of hell. But hey, if you want to imitate killing children, Canada, that’s up to you.

The Eyes Follow You.

17 Aug

Back when I did more than ghost hunt and martial arts, I worked at a company that was the single most terrifying and hilarious jobs of my entire life.

The job itself was really tame–I was an assistant, and the only thing I HAD to do every single day was sort the mail. I was still in college at the time, and it let me work around my schedule, earn a decent wage, and be left alone up at my desk for many hours at a time.

Let me tell you the timeline of this job.

Day -2: I am laid the hell off, sitting on my bed watching Law and Order: SVU, and desperately need to be paid to get out of my house, because Adrian is tired of me reorganizing the office every Tuesday. I notice a job posting on my university’s job listing online–“Work part-time at a small office as a president’s assistant! Clerical work, filing, good pay. Will work around school schedule. Please include your GPA.” JACKPOT, I’M A 4.0.

Day -1: “Come in for an interview,” says Laura. Alright bitches, time to put on pants.

Day 0: I show up at this small office, only a block from my house, in my fancy red shoes and sassy pencil skirt. I can already feel that this interview is going to go well, considering I don’t have cheese on my tit, like I did when I interviewed for my last job that I got laid off at. Word to the wise, Cheeseboob? Not a good idea.
There seems to be an inordinate amount of dead animals on the walls of this office. Oh well, he’s an eccentric man, probably. HOW COULD HE NOT BE BADASS? He owned a great company and hunted all over the world.
Laura is pretty, tall, and fun. She’s chatty in the interview, and I can see that she’s cool–this job is going to rule.

I take a test to make sure that I’m even halfway competent at operating basic computer functions. I do pretty well until I have to calculate percentages. I never knew my official score, but can assure you, it must have been awful.
There are even more dead animals back further into the office. Oh well.

Day 1: FUCK YEAH I’M HIRED. Time to razzledazzle.

Day 2: I train on how to sort the mail. Doesn’t seem too bad. I get a quick rundown of other things I will do: make travel arrangements, compile things into understandable packets, print out his emails in doubles so he can read one and we file one, send birthday cards. Okay, I can do this.

Wait, is that a zebra on that couch?

Day 3: I am alone up at my desk, trying to sort the mail and keep shit straight. There are piles upon piles of papers all over the office, in every location in which there are not dead animals hanging from the walls, which is quite the feat, considering there are at least 3 dead animals in each office. I notice that the coffee table is made of real elephant feet.

I meet Jen, who works with Laura in the back. Laura and Jen are rad as shit.

I meet Cam, the President. Cam is approximately 80, and it his birthday today. He seems nice enough, and I am sent to get his birthday cake. Remembering that I’m terrible in any social situation, my coworkers, Cam, and I assemble in the middle of the office for beans, cornbread, and carrot cake without the icing.

Mother of God, can a bitch get a glass of water up in here?

I make a couple of jokes that Cam doesn’t get, making me look like a total ahole, and we listen to him talk about farming.

Day 19: Okay, what the hell is going on here? Thank God for Jen and Laura, because I would not be able to figure any of this shit out. There is a protocol for literally everything, right down to where to put certain sticky notes, because if we don’t do it this certain way we are literally breaking the law, but I don’t understand any of it. I look like an aneurysm patient trying to file basic things.

There are so many dead animals. There are herds of them. Herds. They line the walls, the floor, and one on the ceiling. There are two in the reception area that stare soullessly into my eyes, watching my every move. I’m sure there are cameras in them.

Cam is codgery on his good days, and straight up WHOA on his bad. It’s a crapshoot sometimes getting things done correctly, mostly because I’m completely incompetent. I don’t understand a lot about farming, but Cam will make sure I do.

Jen is funny. THANK GOD.

Day 30: I meet Kent. Kent is apparently an accountant, but I can’t, for the life of me, ever recall him being in the office to work. He’s dressed in paint stained jeans and a Mighty Ducks sweatshirt. He’s a little sweaty and a lot out of breath.

Jen’s face immediately contorts in a failed attempt not to laugh when she sees him. I immediately IM her.

Noa: WTF is with this guy?
Jen: That’s Kent.
Noa: You say that like it’s no big thing. Dude looks like he painted the lines for a marathon.
Jen: That’s always how he looks, save when he’s wearing a thong and pantyhose underneath those jeans.
Noa: …ugh.
Jen: Once, he was missing for a while, and then came back 4 days later from Seattle with bruises and no explanation.
Noa: …I don’t even know what to say to that.
Jen: True story.
Noa: Dear Kent, it’s weird when you sit on the edge of my desk to introduce yourself. You sweated on my work, and you’re wearing a sweatshirt in August. You’re fucking weird. Love, Noa.
Jen: Laura thinks your letter to Kent is awesome.

Day 57: At this point, I have realized that working here is awesome and terrifying all at the same time. It’s a veritable parade of, “Who knows what’s going to happen this week?” Up to this point, here are a few snippets of joy that have actually occurred.

Cam: “OH MY GOD. Is that a tornado siren?”
Noa: “No, it’s the vaccuum in the hallway. The cleaning ladies started early.”
Jen: Bursts into laughter from the back room.

Kent: “Can I speak to Laura please?”
Noa: “Sure, let me put you through.”
Laura: 10 minutes later, emerges from her office, visibly shaken.

Cam: “You know I have two fighting lions at my house?”
Noa: “What? You have two lions that just fight?”
Cam: “Well they’re dead.”

We just hired a new girl for billing, who is of Vietnamese descent. She is adorable, and we are all afraid for her.

Cam: “I went to Vietnam once.”
Dana: “That’s nice.”
Cam: “You know where they have the best Vietnamese food? In Colorado. Or maybe it’s Thai.”
Dana: Blank, horrified stare.

It’s our other billing girls’ last day, so we all go to eat at a hibachi joint.

Cam: Snaps at the hostess, “SEAT US.” Then hands our waitress a White Paper on the dangers of eating meat that isn’t cooked through.
Jen: “Enjoy your miso and spit.”
Cam: Drinks a couple beers.

Noa: “Happy Birthday Jen! Here’s a shitty cake with Twilight on it!”
Jen: “Might have been better if it said Sorry about your Dismemberment.”
Noa: “Noted.”

Cam: Farts loudly about 6 times as he walks from the front door (directly in front of me) to his office.
Office: NO ONE SAYS A DAMN WORD.
Noa: Can’t do anything but laugh.

Cam: At a conference in New York. “Can you fax me a sheet of business cards? I forgot mine.”
Noa: “…Sure.” Fax.
Cam: Calls back. “These aren’t cardstock.”
Noa: “…”

Kent: “Oh, Noa, I dropped these two files that I absolutely need today behind these two crazy tall filing cabinets. You’re skinny, can you get them?”
Noa: “Okay, no problem.” I spend about 5 minutes dangling helplessly behind two 5 foot tall cabinets to reach them, and tear my shirt across the boob on the way up. KENT STOOD BEHIND ME THE WHOLE TIME STARING AT MY ASS.
Noa: “Fuck’s sake, Jen, you couldn’t have said anything to Kent about that?’
Jen: “No. I was staring in delight, anticipating the horrified look on your face.”

Cam: “Do you think I could win in a fight with Noa?”
Laura: “Noa does Jiu Jitsu, Cam.”
Cam: “I have a year of judo.”
Laura: “Okay, yeah, well then you’ll be fine.”

Day 150: I move away. Cam’s last words are, “Make sure you send out those emails. Well, bye. Faaaarrrrt.”
I can’t make this shit up.

Plea to the God of Adjustable Beds (NOT ADRIAN)

25 Jul

Fuck off, Adrian.

I have wanted a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed (the Monaco Model, to be precise), since I was a child and saw the delightful commercial for the very first time.

I DARE you to tell me who in the world would not love watching Sunday football in a Craftmatic. Reclining at ANY angle, with ANY level of foot support, with custom heating/cooling options and all-over massage. These bitches sell themselves.

Adrian dares to tell me that because I am young, I do not need a Craftmatic.

Here’s Adrian’s logic: “You’re 23. I’m trying to think of ways to get you out of bed. People with Craftmatics have 20 years left–they need the rest.”

Here’s my logic: “YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE IN THIS HOUSE WITH A DEDICATED WORKSPACE WITH ALL YOUR TOOLS NEARBY. I AM PUSHED AWAY TO THE BED OR THE FUCKING GREEN FUTON DOWNSTAIRS THAT THE CATS HAVE TURNED INTO A FORTRESS OF FEAR. DON’T I DESERVE TO WORK IN SUBLIME COMFORT WITH MY 25″ COLOR TV?”

I mean, really.

Have you ever even seen a Craftmatic? Can you imagine the possibilities of owning one? Sleeping in the utmost comfort all the time–it’s amazing to me that they have not been mandated by law yet.

If I had my way in my own house (which I clearly don’t, as I am a slave to Adrian’s ‘useful’ furnishings), I would replace my couches and bed and dining chairs with hybrid Craftmatics/Tempurpedics.

That’s like sleeping on Jesus’ bed. Can you imagine?


We would be reclining all over this damn house.

Come to think of it–I think I could really innovate the Craftmatic Industry.

Imagine the laziness possibilities of a Craftmatic Personal Scooter.
Imagine the ultimate comfort of a Craftmatic bathtub.
Imagine the happiness of Craftmatic tanning beds.
Imagine the joy on a ill child’s face of a videogame centered Craftmatic.
Imagine the driving comfort of a Craftmatic car.

I dare to dream in comfort, Adrian. Don’t you think I deserve this, with the innovations to the industry I have provided? They’re even made in the GOOD OL’ USA.

I should add that this post was in no way a stab at the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed company (Elevation Bed LLC)–I tremendously endorse your product, and have written this post under no urging of anyone (but Adrian). I would be happy to review a bed for this page, if you would be so inclined. Or reclined.

Psychological Warfare

15 Jul

Me: Adrian, can you go get me a coke?

Adrian: Yeah, no problem.
(brings me a coke)
Adrian (as he’s leaving the room): Love me, love me, say that you love me…
Me: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Adrian (husband) is being a huge fuckwad lately. He’s perpetrating psychological warfare.

Me: Hey Adrian, while you’re at the bank, can you get some 10’s?
Adrian: Yeah, no problem. I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.
Me: I HATE YOUR FACE.
He speaks only certain lines of certain songs that get stuck in my head all day.

Me: Do you want to watch America’s Got Talent?
Adrian: In a minute. *hums John Phillips Sousa*
Me: You sleep on the couch.
He does it simply because he knows they piss me the hell off, and I’ll spend all day brewing about how much that one song makes me want to light children aflame, until I finally start singing it in my head and kind of enjoying it, in which he’ll promptly switch to a new one.

Me: *humming* One, like a dream come true, two, just want to be with you…
Adrian: And I said, HEYY AYYY AYYY AY AY, HEYYYY AY AY, I SAID HEY, WHAT’S GOING ON.
FUCK YOU, ADRIAN.

RV To Hell

8 Jul

The summer of my 7th grade year, my Ma and Stepdad decided to fuck up a vacation by going round trip from South Dakota to New Mexico with all four of us and my Ma’s terrier.

To make it even better, we went in a 4 bedroom, one bath, 400 square foot hellhole dubbed The Widowmaker.

South Dakota is like God’s little joke on America, with it’s vast plains of WHERE THE HELL ARE WE. The Big SD does feature Rushmore, which, if you’ve never been, is a rock–that’s all. You go, you snap a picture of you and your dog as presidents on the mountain. However, since it was Monday, and we were leaving for New Mexico only on FRIDAY, we had some time to kill.

So, we made time for:

1) Crazy Horse–another rock, but unfinished. Well thank God I saw that before I died.

2) The Rootin’ Tootin’ Cowboy Salootin’ Dinner Show–Oh, how I wish I were just dicking around about this one. We chose the RTCSDS based on their claims of being the set of the movie Dances with Wolves, Grace’s favorite movie. Upon arrival found a sticky note taped to the floor with the words “Kevn Costnar stood here,” on the way to the food line, where they handed you a metal plate and metal cup and filled your plate first with SEARING HOT BEANS, invited you to sing on stage and crush your soul.

That was all we did. 5 days, folks, 5 days.

So then, to really round out the fuckery, we moseyed on down to The Land of Enchantment–New Mexico (henceforth The Land of Broken Dreams).

Northern New Mexico=Mountains and Ski Areas=pretty.
Southern New Mexico=Desolation=Our chosen destination!

I got chased through a thornbush thicket by a band of rogue deer while wearing a wetsuit carrying flippers and a Sonic Size Dr. Pepper in Roswell.

Mark of a terrible vacation? When the IHOP Brain Teasers are your highlight.