Goddamn Pope
About a month ago word came down from on high: The next Journey to the End of the Night would be held on Saturday, June 20th if they could get enough volunteers. And I was all, like, "Shit yeah! Daddy wants a Journey for Father's Day!" Nothing else was ever said and while hope dwindled, I clung. I arranged for Hunter to spend the night with Nanna and Gramps and everything was prepared for the Journey that ended up not happening.
Thursday morning I awoke to dread, consoling myself that the weekend was near. I remembered that Sunday was Father's Day and I smiled to myself thinking sublime thoughts of sleeping late and being woken up by an excited boy. And then I remembered that he wouldn't be home.
I thought about calling the sleep-over off but he hasn't had one in a long time and both he and Nanna and Gramps have been really looking forward to it. I could pull the trump card and still call it off, and I even considered it, but in the end I decided to lie down in the bed of chumpery that I had made myself.
That said, I was able to score my Father's Day present early because of it. Apparently Hunter had been thinking about what I needed and what he came up with is that I needed a horn for my bike. So with his own money he bought me the gayest, most hideously obnoxious horn god has ever been accosted by. He also selected a gift bag and a card and proudly presented me with the package this morning.
I loved it. And it worked perfectly with my plan of spending the entire evening on my bike. It makes a sound like a baby's squeekie-toy, but at a million decibels. It's so offensive it's sick and we quickly determined that it would never again be sounded inside the house.
And in my rush to pack up my bike and get out the door, I forgot to mount the damned thing. I even had the perfect opportunity to use it to blast a couple of teenage girls off the bike path somewhere in Roseville. It could have been epic.
I did get out, though. Last weekend(?) I made a leisurely 24 mile ride. Today I rode a savage 30 miles. I don't know what made those extra six miles so hellish, but it was crazy. (Part of it was there was more terrain and long hills, part of it was there was no leisurely meandering about.) I made a crazy tour of St. Paul, eventually finding myself at the capital.
From there I made a series of poor choices until I found myself in Maplewood. Some park in Roseville kicked my ass. Somewhere in St. Paul I found myself on a shitty road that turned into a shitty trail that dead-ended at some train tracks. I decided to follow the tracks a little way to see if there was a way to press on. This quickly turned into me walking (and sometimes carrying) my bike. At some point, when I was about to call "Uncle" and turn around, I decided to check out the other side of the tracks to see if there was passage out. There wasn't, but just then a long-ass train came by, so now I was committed.
Eventually I made it most of the way back home and finally stopped for some food (and beer!) and sat and let the sweat dry. Of course, then I had to finish the trip home.
I got home, stripped naked, and collapsed on a chair in front of a fan. After about 20 minutes I got up to shower and I saw that my ass and ball-sweat (and a little poop) had created a stunningly perfect image of mojocatt!
I didn't hesitate as I leapt across the floor to call The Pope. Of course that fucker won't take my calls anymore, he just has one of his lackeys deal with me. Pretty soon I got pissed off and yelled at the poor bastard for a while before he hung up on me again, spewing curses in Latin that would make a sailor go "holy shit, dude, you went too far!". At that point I'd realized that the goddamn fan had dried the sweat-image off the seat cushion.
Now there's just a poop stain there that doesn't look like fucking anything!
Happy Father's Day to me!
Goddamn Pope.
(My computer swallowed this whole the first time I wrote it out. I decided "fuck it, who cares?" But then later I wrote the whole thing out again. This time I'm not proofreading, though. So there.)
Thursday morning I awoke to dread, consoling myself that the weekend was near. I remembered that Sunday was Father's Day and I smiled to myself thinking sublime thoughts of sleeping late and being woken up by an excited boy. And then I remembered that he wouldn't be home.
I thought about calling the sleep-over off but he hasn't had one in a long time and both he and Nanna and Gramps have been really looking forward to it. I could pull the trump card and still call it off, and I even considered it, but in the end I decided to lie down in the bed of chumpery that I had made myself.
That said, I was able to score my Father's Day present early because of it. Apparently Hunter had been thinking about what I needed and what he came up with is that I needed a horn for my bike. So with his own money he bought me the gayest, most hideously obnoxious horn god has ever been accosted by. He also selected a gift bag and a card and proudly presented me with the package this morning.
I loved it. And it worked perfectly with my plan of spending the entire evening on my bike. It makes a sound like a baby's squeekie-toy, but at a million decibels. It's so offensive it's sick and we quickly determined that it would never again be sounded inside the house.
And in my rush to pack up my bike and get out the door, I forgot to mount the damned thing. I even had the perfect opportunity to use it to blast a couple of teenage girls off the bike path somewhere in Roseville. It could have been epic.
I did get out, though. Last weekend(?) I made a leisurely 24 mile ride. Today I rode a savage 30 miles. I don't know what made those extra six miles so hellish, but it was crazy. (Part of it was there was more terrain and long hills, part of it was there was no leisurely meandering about.) I made a crazy tour of St. Paul, eventually finding myself at the capital.
From there I made a series of poor choices until I found myself in Maplewood. Some park in Roseville kicked my ass. Somewhere in St. Paul I found myself on a shitty road that turned into a shitty trail that dead-ended at some train tracks. I decided to follow the tracks a little way to see if there was a way to press on. This quickly turned into me walking (and sometimes carrying) my bike. At some point, when I was about to call "Uncle" and turn around, I decided to check out the other side of the tracks to see if there was passage out. There wasn't, but just then a long-ass train came by, so now I was committed.
Eventually I made it most of the way back home and finally stopped for some food (and beer!) and sat and let the sweat dry. Of course, then I had to finish the trip home.
I got home, stripped naked, and collapsed on a chair in front of a fan. After about 20 minutes I got up to shower and I saw that my ass and ball-sweat (and a little poop) had created a stunningly perfect image of mojocatt!
I didn't hesitate as I leapt across the floor to call The Pope. Of course that fucker won't take my calls anymore, he just has one of his lackeys deal with me. Pretty soon I got pissed off and yelled at the poor bastard for a while before he hung up on me again, spewing curses in Latin that would make a sailor go "holy shit, dude, you went too far!". At that point I'd realized that the goddamn fan had dried the sweat-image off the seat cushion.
Now there's just a poop stain there that doesn't look like fucking anything!
Happy Father's Day to me!
Goddamn Pope.
(My computer swallowed this whole the first time I wrote it out. I decided "fuck it, who cares?" But then later I wrote the whole thing out again. This time I'm not proofreading, though. So there.)