Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts

Friday, December 17, 2010

Afterglide goes to London: don't it make my white shoes brown

As some of you already know, I recently returned from a fairly whirlwind trip to London. Being my first trip ever that required a passport, it was quite exciting. Making things a bit easier, I went with my longtime friend Mary, who is quite an experienced traveler, both domestically and internationally. In fact, she had been to London once before back in 2000, so she was somewhat familiar with getting around the city. So we rode the tube, minded the gap, and punched a Midlander in the back (I was just going with the flow).

On Monday, we stood patiently in the cold to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Fair warning, if you ever go, it isn't the 15 or 30 minute ceremony I envisioned, but rather a 9 hour ordeal in which they produce the complete, unabridged works of Shakespeare and vacuum up an entire horse under the watchful eye of Sir James Dyson. Am I glad I saw it? Yes, it's crossed off my list of life experiences. Would I see it again? No, not unless promised an ungloved dry rub behind the guard hut 'round the corner.

Since it was our last full day in London, we packed in as much as we could. Before heading out to a performance of Les Misérables, we stopped back at our hotel across from Victoria station to freshen up and rest briefly. As I plopped down to sit, Mary opened up the window. Immediately, I noticed a strange odor and thought to myself, "Hmm, something sure stinks outside!" A few minutes later, while crossing the room to get to the bathroom, I noticed brownish streaks and chunks mottling the carpet. It didn't take me long to make the connection between that and the smell. I lifted my shoe to inspect the bottom, and sure enough, the treads were completely mashed full of moist, gooey dog shit. FUCK!

I hurriedly kicked the shoe off and made my way to the bathroom, alerting Mary to the problem along the way. She set about scrubbing the carpet with a wet towel while I gingerly picked and prodded shit out of my shoe with wads of toilet paper. Judging from the putrid smell, the dog must have eaten a burrito and a hedgehog just prior to releasing crosslaid logs, which I presume were emitting a healthy, roiling steam given the glistening freshness of the shit and the crisply cool weather conditions. I'd say it was a wonder that I missed it, but I imagine I was busy gawking at a landmark or at some English bird's tits.

Normally when I travel and know there will be a lot of sightseeing and walking, I just wear my running shoes. I know they'll be comfortable and won't tear the the hell out of my feet, even after putting several miles a day on them. Thankfully, I had the foresight to pack a separate, if not slightly less informal pair of Rockport walking shoes for this trip, because that dog shit just wasn't coming out easily, and Mary refused to let me use her hairbrush. I sealed the offensively browned kick tightly in a plastic shopping back, and stowed that in one of the airtight Space Bags I had brought to make more room in my luggage. I really didn't care to get turd residue all over my clothes and toiletries on the way home, though that might have made for an interesting conversation had my bag been selected for inspection when going through customs.

Alas, arriving home didn't absolve me of the task of cleaning shit out of my shoe. I thought if I froze the shit, I could tap it out of the treads. But wailing upon my concrete front step with my poop shoe proved to be a fruitless endeavor. I really haven't had the heart or stomach to attack it with any further voracity, so for now, I have returned the shoe to my uninsulated garage, where our Minnesota winter icebox has frozen it solid, locking its foul fecal odors firmly in place until the first thaw reminds me of the duty I shirked. I would like to resume my workout routine, however, so I will make due with an older, more worn pair of running shoes until I either break down and attack the problem with your Christmas Sonicare or give up and purchase a new pair of shoes. Right now I'm leaning toward the latter and finding an alternate means of ruining your expensive toothbrush.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

(Road) trippin' balls: Omaha part 3

Jeremy's Road Journal (with loads of penises!)

Max had the fantastic idea of buying small notebooks for all of us to entertain ourselves during the 5 hour drive to Nebraska. We played mad libs, wrote dirty haikus and limericks, and drew twisted pictures. During one gas station stop, I upped the ante by purchasing crayons.

My road journal and activity book is eco-friendly. My ass, unfortunately, spews out enough CO2 on a daily basis to destroy 100 acres of rainforest.


A haiku:
Omaha d-bags
crammed in a black car
I wish I had flown


Followed by a chinless man car surfing on a giant spooge-spewing dick and ball sack tied to the roof of a Caprice station wagon with faux wood paneling, which is running over a hobo and overtaking a brain-damaged railroad engineer on unicycle. The symbolism needs no explanation whatsoever.


POP TARTS. More like pop farts. Oh, I am so clever!


This drawing of a spooged-on chick sitting in a corner with a cloth that has been unceremoniously whipped onto her face from out-of-frame by a pantsless cad inspired a limerick.

There once was a young woman in the corner
Who had to decide between porn or
A job at the Y
But that chafed her thighs
So what the fuck did she choose porn for?



Next we decided to do a Superbad-style collection of drawings of anthropomorphized penises.

"A Trip to the Zoo"

A family of penises, including a dad, son, and little baby penis in a stroller, gaze curiously at a caged, hairy reticulated penis. The older son has several balloons, while the baby penis only has one. He's so tiny that three balloons would most certainly carry him away!



"Baby's First Bottle"

A mother penis tenderly looks over her baby penis, who has just spit up on her testicle shoulder after his first bottle.


The limerick at the bottom of "Baby's First Bottle" was inspired by passing a pasta plant near the freeway:
There once was plant that smelled like a noodle
That drew my attention from my penis doodle
I bought a bottle of sauce
Gave my doodle a toss
Then drifted off to sleep, good night, toodles

This bib overall-wearing farmer penis is smacking his cow on the tail for some reason.
There once was a giant cock at the zoo
As well as a cow that said moo
But the cock was an ass
And the cow was aghast
But if a cock slapped your tail you'd be too


CHECK IT!!!


Bronto poop.


These guys are happy to provide a reference of scale. "Just standin' by some bronto poop. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

(Road) trippin' balls: Omaha part 2

Warning: this post contains a couple of mildly NSFW images of artistic and/or cartoonish boobs. So save your muffiny rub-off until you get home, butternut.

After Ang cleaned herself up from Friday night's shenanigans, we headed out on Saturday to explore some thrift and antique stores. As you can tell from my many past posts involving thrift stores, you already know that I live for this shit. The first store was more antique than thrift, but at least we got to enjoy the Donkey Party.


The basement of the store was mostly clothing. I quickly browsed the small selection of men's clothing, checked out the weird mannequins, and came across these groovy lamps. They look like 60's outer outer space-themed comic book characters. Max and I had enough of watching the ladies try on clothes (they kept doing it in the dressing room, and it was hard to see through the slats in the door), so we walked to a book store across the street.


Once the girls were done, we headed over to another store where I found this horrific Rosie O'Donnell doll, or "Rosie O'Doll." To make it worse, it talks. Even worse than that, the real Rosie O'Donnell talks, too.


Why, oh why did we not buy this velvet boobie painting?


High Steppin' and Fancy Dancin'.


We live in a colorful world.


After wandering the massive store by myself, I bumped into Ang. As I followed her into a corner room, I looked up and spied this masterpiece.


"Go forth and do the bidding of thy master, the dark lord Satan. Also, check out the bottom part of my juvenile vagina courtesy this sickeningly and inappropriately short skirt."


Sign: "Don't touch me!! I'm not THAT kind of girl! 'NO!' means 'NO!'"
Jeremy: "Surreptitious boob touch! Tune in Tokyo!"


This mannequin recoiled in fear when I waved my fist at it in a threatening manner. "You hear me, woman?"


Before we went out for dinner and drinks, we made a pit stop at Nobbie's, a party supply, costume, and novelty store of mammoth proportions. It was there that I lived out my fantasy of having 6 boobs on my head at once. I tried some sweet talking on the ride into town, but Ang, Lesley, and Coco shut me down. Strangely enough Max was ok with it though. I politely declined his offer.


C'mon, Ang, fart! Let's light this place up Statue of Liberty style!


Space man Max.


"This store is monitored 24 hours a day by a gay cowboy."


I tried to talk Max into giving his hat to the gay cowboy, but he was not pleased with this suggestion.


"Teach your child the joys of killing while their minds are still malleable."


The image of a child holding a machine gun disturbs me far, far less than the creepy look on this kid's face. I half expect him to pop out of my linen closet and ask for a hug. No, you may not have a hug, you pumpkin-headed little freak.


"On your mark! Get Wet! Throw!" for the vibrating shark.


After our boobalicious escapades, we headed over to The Homey Inn, the first and only bar I've ever been to that serves champagne on tap. You can get sweet champagne or dry. I preferred the dry. By the way, don't let me forget that I still owe Max three fins for our dinner that night. He might get pissed and burn my shoulders with his jet pack.


The bubbles tickled my penis. Ang did not. Something about not wanting to do it in front of three other people. Oh, please!


After dinner, we headed over to The Lynx Lounge, an establishment that is usually patronized primarily by African American customers, but they're welcoming to everyone who comes in the door, including people like me who are so white that you can see their heart beating through their chest when they are shirtless.


At the Lynx, I got hammered and yelled at Ang for puking in the bed and for not cutting the crusts off of my sandwich a couple of months ago.


There was a lot of photo snapping going on under the table. Someone (I swear, not me) snapped this keeper of Coco's legs.


Oh, look! Is that Max snapping photos under the table? Hmmmmm...


Ok, now you've crossed the line, bub. One more and...


Hey! I told you to stop taking pictures of my girlfriend's goods! Hold on for just a sec, would you? *honk honk* Anyway, like I was saying, you've got some nerve, buddy boy!


That evening, we met up with some of Max and Coco's old Omaha friends. Ang was a bit worse for the wear from her drinking the previous night, so she and I cut out early and were in bed by 1 am. Everyone else stumbled back to the hotel around 3.

With sadness and fondness, we left dear Omaha early Sunday afternoon and headed home with me behind the wheel the whole way. In the car, we expressed our hopes that we would find wipes for Scottish babies when we stopped for gas. Wouldn't you know, we were in luck! "Ay, I be pinchin' a penny out o' this frame, don'tcha know. Gimme a minute, and I be pinchin' a loaf."


Coming next: Robot penises, Jeremy's road journal, and creepy mannequins

Monday, April 21, 2008

(Road) trippin' balls: Omaha part 1

Warning: this post contains photos of hurl. 'Nuff said.

This past weekend we drove to Omaha, Nebraska with Lesley, Max, and Coco in a road trip that came together relatively quickly. Max and Coco lived in Omaha and wanted to share with us the retro wonders of this well-preserved blast from the past. From its swanky, leather-bound steak houses to its still-swinging lounges, Omaha might seem to be an oasis in a sea of the Starbuck-fucking of America (some might call that "progress"), but I would recommend visiting soon. Who knows how long Omaha can keep from being turned into a giant Costco. "Welcome to Costco. I love you."

When going on a long road trip with me, I recommend you buy me a quart of Gas Treatment. Otherwise, I will surely treat you to my gas.


In the middle of Iowa, we ran into this school bus. We all made fun of it because it's a Ford Taurus. Ha ha! How small are these schools out here? Then we got up next to it and saw that it was for a school for the blind. I felt a moment of guilt. Then I remembered these kids are blind, and that cheered me right up again for some reason.


On our second and final pee break, I entered the single stall bathroom after Max to find this neat stack of clean coffee cups on the sink. Either this is how the gas station spot drug tests their employees, or Max was making some really disturbing coffee in there.


Finally the moment arrived, and we were in Omaha. And even though it was a ratio of three girls to two guys in the car, it was clear that Omaha would be a total sausage fest.


We had one large room reserved for all of us at the Satellite Motel. Are you starting to understand what I mean by "retro" yet?


The Satellite Motel is a round building with enormous pie wedge-shaped rooms on two floors and what appears to be a single room on a third floor with a panoramic view of a car repair shop, another motel, and a bus bench.


All joking aside, the Satellite Motel was actually not too bad. Every single room wall is solid, sound-stopping concrete block, and it seemed reasonably clean. And the price for housing 5 people? A whopping $11 per person per night.


Ang approves of our accommodations.


After freshening up (having a huge orgy), we headed out to Johnny's Cafe for some Nebraska-style meatened yums.


Ang was so excited for steak that she decided to attempt one of Max and Coco's patented jumping photos. Instead she actually took off into the air and got sucked through the jet engine on a 737. Amazingly, she survived, and fluttered gently to the ground like a crumpled Wal-mart bag.


At Johnny's, you can get meat, seafood, or meat AND seafood. Slow down, god dammit! I can't decide!


I tried the bloody mary at Johnny's. It was a little thicker than I'm used to with bloodies, but it was also longer and girthier, so I was fine with it.


"None of the animals in this room were served to you tonight. - The Management"


This painting hung behind our booth. It appears to be a hunter offering a curious bib overall-clad farmer a coffee enema. I just don't understand art sometimes.


Stab!


We shared an order of onion rings, which were actually onion chunks. Hey, it all tastes the same, but I want some truth in advertising when it comes to the shape of my food.


Uh, waiter, send this back to the kitchen. You clearly have brought an Omaha Strip Steak intended for a Mr. M. Rare.


Lesley, shows us her jazz hands. I later showed the whole table my conga balls.


Speaking of balls...


In addition to my steak, I ordered a side of crab legs to make it surf and turf. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, as I got about halfway through the steak and was done. I made my way through most of the crab legs with help from Ang, but I decided to stop short of feeling like I would burst and just started putting ice cubes in the melted butter. Hey, check it out, everyone! That's what's in my arteries now!


The door to this place is crazy. Check out the detail on those animals.


We saved the tiny cows for this door. It was either that or tiny cow on a stick. Actually that sounds delicious. Somebody get on genetically engineering that shit for me! Screw in vitro meat, man!


Johnny's had many of its original menus on the wall. A prime rib meal for 2 bucks. God damn. I can't even drive my car to work on 2 bucks of gas anymore.


We were going to go out for drinks, but Max wasn't feeling terribly well, so we just hung out in the room and drank, played Buzz Word, gabbed, and snacked. Actually Max probably wishes we would have just gone to the bar and left him the fuck alone so he could rest.

Apropos of nothing, Banana Twins! I'd slide my banana between those twins any day! Ha ha ha haaaaaaaa. God, I'm predictable.


Ang drank a lot of rum and Diet Coke (to be fair, so did Lesley and Coco). I stuck to beer because I'm not a big fan of rum. Once Max fell asleep, I put a Banana Twin in his mouth.


"Is it in, yet?"


Max may have been sick, but he still whipped our asses at Buzz Word.


Coco dressed up this Pop Tarts box. Say ah!


Hours rolled by, and before we knew it, it was nearly 3 am. Soon we all settled in. I had a little trouble falling asleep, but as I finally started drifting off to sleep, Ang suddenly sat straight up in bed, and as the words "Are you OK?" came out of my mouth, a high pressure stream of vomit came out of hers. None of it hit my side of the bed, so after she ran to the bathroom and began retching in there, I rolled over and muttered an annoyed, "Jesus Christ."

As poor Ang put on her own little episode of As the Hurl Churns, I laid awake, while on the other side of the room, Coco tried mightily to stifle her laughter. Finally, she returned to bed, and we both slipped into unconsciousness.

Several hours later I awoke with the urge to pee. A flip of the bathroom light switch revealed a small part of the horror Ang had unleashed on the unsuspecting crapper. The floor in front of the toilet was smeared in vomit that had dried to a burrito shit brown. The back and sides of the toilet were awash in more chunks of steak and shame. I turned to the towel rack for a towel and discovered that the hand towel was also covered in chunky stomach contents stew. In horrified disbelief, I cried out, "For fuck sake!" But don't call David Caruso into this crime scene quite yet because I knew exactly what had happened. Ang, half-asleep and fully drunk, had kindly attempted to clean up the mess that she had made. Unfortunately without her glasses or full access to her motor skills, she succeeded only partially. I dutifully cleaned up as best I could so no one else would have to stand in it, peed, and went back to bed.

In the light of morning, the subject of Ang's vomiting escapades was inevitably discussed, and she revealed that upon entering the bathroom, she barfed onto the closed toilet seat before she could open it. We pieced things together and learned that most of us had cleaned up some of her vomit remnants at various points throughout the night. Here is a delicious sample.


Coco shocks our puked-on comforter while Ang throws the devil horns.


We fretted a little about leaving this mess, albeit somewhat cleaned up, for the family that owned and ran the hotel, but we agreed that we'd tip them when we checked out. I pictured them cleaning it up with our toothbrushes then simply rotating the comforters clockwise to another bed instead of giving us clean ones. But all was well. Perhaps Max's small pharmacy sitting out on the night stand garnered us some sympathy. "Aw, one of them has the Campbell's Chunky Flu. Let's clean this place up all nice and sparkly and leave extra clean towels." Since we had them fooled, I followed that up with a blast of glossy latex diarrhea in the dresser drawers before we checked out. I call it the Dutch Boy.

Coming up next: the robot penis challenge, champagne on tap, and notes from my road journal