"Tell me," I begged my nonvirgin friends. "What does it feel like?" I thought they'd be able to explain to me the exact sensation of having a boy inside you. I had the idea that during sex you experienced some great shivery, physical epiphany that transformed you on an almost molecular level into a more sophisticated, more evolved human being.
But all my friend Judy could say was "What did it feel like? Like I impaled my twat on a hockey stick, that's what if felt like."
Golden.
We went to the Drive In Saturday night to see a double feature of "The Simpsons Movie" and "Transformers". It was at the one in Winchester, the "Sky View". I like the Paris "Bourbon County" Drive In offering exponentially better. Their concession stand is par excellence. A butterier corn dog you're not likely to find anywhere, my friend. They'll just microwave some sad dog in a blanket out of a plastic wrapper right-the-f@#k-in-front of you at the Sky View. They also tout themselves as "the family Drive In", which you know gets up my craw like nobody's business.
I could go on about "The Simpson's Movie", but you'll see it if you really want to. As for O.G. mofuggin' Prime and his pals, I walked away with 4 messages from this film:
1) Black people are silly, crazy, and not to ever be trusted.
2) Those Mexicans need to speak English.
3) The President is not aware of high level conspiracies, and upon finding out about them he is appalled totally on our behalves.
4) That John Turturro sure is one talented WHORE.
Speaking of corn dogs and the like, we also attended the Bluegrass Fair. Ugly America (us included), poorly and haphazardly constructed rides, and batter fried everything will get my sorry ass to Masterson Station park in a most hied manner. Kevin and I shared a snickers bar that was deep fried in a funnel cake shell and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Shut up, you're just jealous!
I have this new Chiropractic clinic job I won't besmirch the name of by mentioning here. I work once a week in Manchester, KY at a clinic our Dr. also owns. On my way back today, I noticed three "memorial rear windows" on I-75. Is everyone out there hip to how this phenomenon works? Basically, with the aid of an epitaph, and through the magic of white applique letters, any automobile can become a moving mausoleum in a flash. First, is the window the tribute, or is the whole car, or did someone die IN that car? Does this mean the driver plunked down an extra K or so for this instead of that useless headstone? Would you not get sick of seeing "yromeM gnivoL nI" in your rearview everytime you went out for cigs, coffee, or a Big Mac? Coasters, is this "Southern Gothic" or has it spread all over?
My True Story. Ok, I meant to run home and blog about this last week, but it didn't happen. I was going to work on Harrodsburg Road around 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and roundabout the usual clusterfuck at Pasadena, I began to feel myself slipping into Lalalottery land. I believe this time it was the "themed trailer park" fantasy, where every trailer is like a different room in a kick ass house with verandas and pathways in between. Before I could make it to the "comic trailer" with the 50's Dc Comic Checkerboard logo all around it, the DJ on WRFL started a new set with a reggae cover of the "Be Thankful For Whatcha Got" originally done by William DeVaughn in the 70's (you know, "Gangsta whitewalls, TV antennas in the back..."). It had this really outstanding and anthemic horn section. As I gave pause to listen, to my left was a bank clock with the temperature reading 80 degrees and across, waiting at a bus stop, was a sweet, round faced, prepubescent black girl in a wheelchair laughing with a friend. Needless to say, I showed up VERY polite and friendly to work, smiling like a fool, and feeling a tiny bit heebeejeebied.
