From: "Sen. P. Q. Filibuster" <email@example.com>
Date: Wed, Jul 8, 2009 10:26 PM
After leaving the Brushwood Nuclear Test & Quilting
Bee Facility, the
realization the world had not yet ended was as damaging as discovering
one's hamster was sleeping around (Not that *I* would know what that
After getting back on the highway I suddenly noticed
I was in a trance-
like daze. Nothing seemed real. It was as if I was having an out of
body experience, and by that I mean it was as if I had left my body
and entered that of a child dazed by a concussion.
About 15 minutes down the road I was passed on the left
by a small
sedan with a flat, black paint job. I should have known I was in
trouble, because the operator, who seems to have possessed an
abundance of initiative, constructed with PVC his very own luggage
rack on the roof and bicycle rack at the trunk. Painted on the side
of his ride, in some sort of odd calligraphy, was ``The Death
Machine''. Suddenly I was filled with rage and shouted ``YOU FUCKING
ASSHOLE! YOU'RE A DAY LATE AND A DILDO SHORT, COCKSUCKER!!''.
Unfortunately my reflexes were slowed by the trauma of having to
survive yet another 51 weeks until the world would finally end (for
fuck's sake, "Bob"! Can't you do anything right?), and so I did not
lament until he was just ahead of me and this kindly-looking, blue-
haired old lady was passing in her civic. Wow did she give me a dirty
look! Not to be outdone in the Dirty Looks Department by an
octogenarian, I brought my hand up to my chin and lips, made a ``V''
shape with my middle and ring fingers and showed her my lizard
tongue. Score one for the Senator.
20 minutes later, that fucking The Death Machine passed me again.
Just after turning onto US-219 I noticed a young man
with backpack on
foot, and being naturally generous I stopped to give him a lift. The
young man was going to California because his sister lives in Hawaii
(don't ask). He was naturally inclined to know how I was doing and
where I was going. The fool.
I gave him the usual (read: cryptic) "Bob"
introduction, which only
invites more questions, which only invites more evasive answers, and
so on, and then settled into the story of the time when 808 gave some
fellow a shirt, which then prompted the police to kidnap him and dump
him off at Brushwood for X-Day (one only *wishes* they could make this
shit up). I then offered him a shirt. The look on the poor little
guy's face was priceless. Perhaps I shouldn't grin quite so evilly
when I'm happy, or perhaps I shouldn't be so happy to offer to help
other people, but the timing was engineered because at the very moment
I made the offer we had arrived at I-80 where I was kicking him out.
I did feel sorry about lifting his wallet ($18 and a baggie of seeds)
so I gave him a can of green beans. After verifying he had no can
opener, I told him I had none to spare. I suggested he cook the can
directly in the fire (why wash dishes while hitching?), and then
lifted his Bic. Poor, poor Lane.
I swear to "Bob", I didn't feel ``normal''
again until Wednesday
evening after getting a few days of beer down my gullet. I just can't
get that vision out of my head, when at 0615 Sunday morning I saw
"Bob" and an Xist working some deal out again. They were in hushed
tones, but "Bob" was visibly animated and punctuated his statements
and swooping hand gestures. I guess ``good therapy'' would be to
upload the transcript to the group, but that is a story for another
Sen P. Q. Filibuster (R-PA)