The Bathtub Dogs go to Lansing
This past weekend, The Beav, along with The Bathtub Dogs (http://www.bathtubdogs.com/) journied to Lansing, Michigan to compete in the International Competition of Collegiate Acapella. Here are some of the highlights:
1/28 3:30 PM
We are supposed to be loaded up and leaving. We are actually on the way to pick up our student-director, Scott. He was supposed to pick up the vans at about 2:30, but instead I'm getting him from his house. Needless to say, we will not be leaving on time.
1/28 3:50 PM
I climb up into the dark grey van that will be my home for the next 12 hours or so. I quickly discover that my dad was right when he described driving a passenger van as being, "like driving a box of cheerios". This thing has a turning radius of about half a mile, goes 0-60 in probably 10 minutes or so, and in no way whatsoever can be described with words like "sporty", "sexy", "aerodynamic", "fuel-efficient", or any other word you would use to describe a desirable vehicle.
1/28 4:45 PM
We are at Greg's house in Omaha. We have come there to get a tape adapter so that we can play CDs, otherwise we'll probably lose our fucking minds. While we're there, we get some duct tape to cover up the sign on the back of the van that says "THIS VAN'S MAXIMUM SPEED IS 65MPH. IF SPEEDING, CALL 1-800..." When we finish, you can see that there is clearly a big orange sign on the back of our van that has now had the text obscured with duct tape. I hope that nobody called the University while I was doing 80 on the way up to Omaha. We hit the road again.
1/28 7:15 PM
We are in Des Moines, and I'm eating McDonald's for the first time since seeing Super Size Me. Up to this point I had been eating a very healthy diet and exercising regularly. Now I'm eating fried food with cheese on it, washing it down with a pop, and then getting in a van and sitting for hours. The guilt that is pulsing through me is exceeded only by the greasy deliciousness of my double quarter-pounder with cheese. From somewhere inside, I hear my arteries scream, "NOOOOOOO!!!!!! WE WERE DOING SO WELL!!!!!!" I tried to get the guys to eat someplace decent, but the overwhelming consensus was that they'd rather save three bucks per meal and eat utter shit all weekend. After we finish our meal, we take our duct tape to where the other van is parked and cover up its sign about speeding. After that we make a big duct tape penis on their back window.
1/28 9:30
We learn that the other van is somewhere around Iowa City, while we are nearly in Illinois. The other van had been right behind us, but Scott somehow confused our van with a Jeep Cherokee and followed them off the interstate and got lost. Did I mention he smokes weed and drinks too much? Let it be known: getting wasted can turn you into a moron.
1/29 3:00 AM
I'm still driving. I've been the only one driving the entire time. I'm losing my mind. We pass Climax, Michigan, and think it is the funniest thing ever, especially because it's only a few miles from the interchange to take I-69 North. We call the other van to tell them that they'll want to go with 69 after they reach Climax. We wish we had a camera. We also realize that Michigan is on Eastern time, so we've lost an hour. We are not pleased at this.
1/29 4:30 AM
I am driving aimlessly around Lansing. I know the exact address of our hotel, but cannot find it because Link declined to put the road atlas or map to our hotel into the van when he transferred the items out of my car. Among the other things he didn't move from the trunk to the van: two air mattresses. More on that later.
1/29 4:50 AM
We have found our Super 8 hotel, and I'm struggling to check in because I've just driven 12 hours, and the Indian guy behind the counter is mumbling through the glass separating the desk from the lobby. I slide him my credit card and get room keys, and this is all I care about.
When I get to my room, I discover that there are hairs on either side of my pillow. My mind is awash with images of the horrible things that may have happened on these sheets which seem not to have been washed. I am too tired to care. I go to sleep.
1/29 6:45 AM
The guys from the other van have arrived. We have 3 hotel rooms for 15 guys, so obviously some people are looking at sleeping on the floor. This wouldn't be a problem had Dave remembered the air matresses...but he didn't. Matt Engler is relegated to sleeping with Tim Pederson on an air matress designed to hold one person. I wish I could witness this spectacle, but it would require me to get up and walk to another room, so I don't. All 4 guys now in the room are so tired that literally anything is funny. We laugh hysterically for about a half hour about things that aren't comical, then finally crash at around 7:15 AM.
1/29 11:15 AM
I wake up to the sound of my phone vibrating against the desk, as does everyone else in the room. It vibrates twice, then stops. This could only be Ashley sending me a text message. I try to go back to sleep, but I don't quite pull it off because the message alert on Will's phone keeps fucking beeping, and he's also taking up more than half the bed. I am acutely aware of how much I prefer sharing a bed with Ashley to sharing a bed with Will, and I decide to check my text message. It's her complaining about how her roommates woke her up. Irony, anyone? I spend the next half hour or so angrily texting Ashley about how she woke me up...not because I'm especially mad, but because I like to give her shit.
1/29 12:10 PM
Scott comes into our room with two plastic cups. Each cup is filled about 1/3 of the way with an anonymous green liquid. Scott explains that since the hotel does not provide complimentary bottles of the little shampoos, he went and asked the Indian guys at the desk for some shampoo. They, evidently, took a big bottle of Pert Plus from behind the desk and poured some into plastic cups. This was to be our community shampoo. At this point I'm really glad I brought my own shampoo and my own towel. Half the group is waiting for the Indian guys to finish drying towels so that they can shower. I'm already clean.
1/29 1:00 PM
The Dogs will be performing in the standard dress shirt/tie and jeans ensemble tonight, so I go to the front desk to see about getting an iron so that I can remove the multitude of wrinkles from my dress shirt as well as the pleats that my dryer put into my jeans. Good news is that the Indian guys have an iron. The bad news, they tell me, is that there is no ironing board. One guy turns to the other and through his thick accent says "Yeah, we should really buy one of those." I try to avoid showing my disbelief at how crappy the hotel is and go back to my room to iron on the wooden desk. I'm sure that's not a fire hazard.
1/29 6:10 PM
We are in sound check for the competition, and it is becoming rapidly evident that the guy running the sound board doesn't know shit about sound board operating. We basically have to tell him exactly how we will be placing our microphones, and what level the mics should be. I sound check my solo, and tell him that I'll want my mic turned down "a lot" lower than it is for the show. More on that later.
1/29 7:30 PM
Half an hour until show time, and our dressing room smells horrible. At least half the group has crapped in the bathroom, which is really little more than a cement closet with a toilet in it. We're basically trying to stay awake considering the most sleep any of us got is around 4 hours. We're passing time by making fun of each other and throwing things at each other's genitals. Showtime cannot arrive soon enough...
1/29 8:40 PM
We're heading into the last song of our set, and it's going very well. The audience, while at first in disbelief, eventually accepted the fact that we did sing "I Wanna Sex You Up" by Color Me BADD for our second song, and even liked it. It's now time for my solo, and I can feel a wave of nervousness wash over me. My throat gets dry, my breathing gets shallow, and I get PISSED. I haven't been nervous to sing in years. What the fuck?!? The song starts off well enough, and I'm mellowing out, and then once I get to the verse, the sound guy turns my mic way up. SON OF A BITCH. Now I have to sing really quietly to keep from blowing out the audience and totally drowning out the group behind me. Not only that, but having to sing quietly is probably the hardest thing to do when you're already nervous and dried out. Long story short, I kinda choke and end up giving a really average performance. While not terrible, it might be the worst I've done the song, and that makes me cranky.
1/29 10:40 PM
We find out that we've gotten second place, which means we will advance to the Regional Semifinals in Madison, Wisconsin. I am no longer pissy about my solo now, because I realize that I could have knocked it out of the fucking park and we'd still have been second. The guys who get first were ridiculously awesome to watch, so we probably weren't even close to them in points. Jeff Orosco wins the award for best soloist, and we are pretty pleased for having come into Michigan and beaten all the Michigan groups. Only the University of Illinois group has topped us. We are pleased at our quasi-victory, and will now go get drunk.
1/29 11:00 PM
We are driving back to the hotel to change, and at the urging of somebody in the back of the van, I stop to ask a group of girls if they need a ride to the party. They surprisingly accept, and pile into the van. It quickly becomes evident that at least one of them has become a psycho Bathtub Dogs groupie since we performed. I learn that they're all freshman, most of them are stupid, and basically all of them really wanna do us. I haven't been able to figure out if they're cute yet, because they're wearing coats and I'm still driving the van. One of them tries to tell me that we're driving the wrong way to go to our hotel, but I elect not to listen to her. I am right to make this choice, because 15 minutes and a beer stop later, we're back at the Super 8, as is our other van. I hop out and yell, "I picked up beer and Freshmen! Just a quick change and we're ready to party!"
1/29 11:45 PM
We have arrived at the party, which is being held at some crappy house. The place is packed with people. We spend about the first 20 minutes pressed up against the wall in a narrow hallway that leads to the kitchen. Evidently nobody has managed to tap the keg yet, but I don’t care because I have my own beer. At this point I get a good look at the girls we picked up. None of them is hot. Not even a little bit. The best-looking one of them, “TheDecentOne” is maybe a 7 out of 10. One of them might be cute if she were in shape and didn’t have teeth pointing at every possible angle. Now that I get a good look around the party, I notice two things:
1) There are maybe 5 girls here.
2) They are all ugly.
1/30 12:05 PM
I am told to go up to the 3rd floor of the house, because evidently there are couches and a stripper pole up there. I am enticed not so much by the pole, but the couches. I go upstairs and sit on a couch, and continue drinking while I stare blankly at other people in the room and listen to the skipping CD playing on somebody’s crappy stereo. Some of the girls have followed us up there, and I am presently very worried that some of them might take their clothes off if they get drunk. Soon somebody comes up to tell us we can’t be up there, and I’m relieved.
1/30 12:40 AM
Somebody has spit out gum on a chair in a very dark room, and I’ve sat in it. I am now picking gum off my jeans and sending text messages to Ashley because that’s more fun than the party. TheDecentOne is flirting with me. I’d flirt back if she wasn’t a freshman and totally self-involved. She takes my phone away from me, but quickly gives it back after she sees that I'm going to get pissed rather than engage in further flirtation to get it back. I get the rest of the gum off my jeans and begin making fun of people who are “dancing” in the living room. I put dancing in quotations because they dance precisely like you’d expect drunken white kids from Michigan to dance.
1/30 1:00 AM
I’m in the kitchen, singing a song I don’t know with guys from at least 5 different acapella groups. Scott starts making fun of me from across the room because I had previously warned the rest of the guys in the group not to be “that guy” who does exactly what I’m presently doing. I’d care more, but I’m starting to get drunk, and anything is more fun than sitting in the other room watching people try to dance.
1/30 3:00 AM
We are leaving the party, and the girls we’ve met hug us all before we go. TheDecentOne hugs me just a little too long considering I’m somebody she just met and she hasn’t been drinking. On the way outside, I somehow get talked into carrying some random girl to her car, which is around the back of the house. That having been done, we all pile into the van and instruct Shoes (our designated driver) to take us to get food.
1/30 3:15 AM
I am drunk dialing people and telling them all about the acapella competition, as though they’ll understand or care. I call at least 8 people.
1/30 3:35 AM
We are at White Castle, and I’m talking to Ashley. I’m moderately drunk, and even still the smell of grease is powerful. We decide that 5 of us will split what the people of White Castle call a “crave case”. It contains 30 little cheeseburgers. It takes a ridiculous amount of time to get our food, but I don’t notice because I spend most of my time perched atop the trash bin, drunkenly narrating our activities to Ashley and quoting Anchorman. The Burger King employees across the room think we are hilarious, but we're not sure why.
1/30 3:50 AM
We are eating our “crave case”. I am drunk, and this shit still doesn’t taste good. The case consists of 30 “sliders”, which are basically half-sized cheeseburgers that are so greasy they come with holes in the bun. They also have onions on them. I eat my six and imagine the digestive horrors that will likely result from mixing this crap with beer. More on that later.
1/30 11:00 AM
Despite our plans to get up at 9:30, we’ve only just gotten up. We pack, pick up some doughnuts and hit the road. I drive until we get into eastern Iowa, and then move to stretch out in the back of the van at about 6:00 PM.
1/30 6:30 PM
The first of my White Castle/beer farts is released. The smell is much akin to rotting flesh stuffed with onions. Everyone in the van is instantly infuriated, and Greg attempts to stick his nose out the 2” gap created by opening the back window so that he can get fresh air. I’m so tired that everything is funny to me again. I'm laughing hysterically at the scene. I can feel a whole lot more gas on the way. This is going to be hilarious.
1/30 7:30 PM
Greg is ready to go on a killing spree. Over the last hour I’ve been upping the ante with my farts, having gone from just farting to farting and wafting it at Greg, to farting on Greg’s head, and ultimately to dropping my pants and farting on Greg’s head with my bare ass. He’s averaging about 0.78 seconds from the time I fart until the time the horrid stench assaults his nostrils and he lunges for the window to seek oxygen. Nobody in the van is pleased with the smell, but everyone else thinks Greg’s reactions are hilarious. This is even funnier than the time I subjected everyone on my plane home from D.C. to my Captain Morgan/Chipotle farts.
1/30 10:30 PM
We have arrived back in Lincoln, and are vacuuming out the van and removing the duct tape from the back. Several people comment on how we can vacuum up the chips and dirt from the floor, but the stench of my White Castle farts and everyone’s sweat will probably never come out. I drop everyone off, return the van and head back home. It wasn’t much of a road trip, but it had its amusing points.
1/28 3:30 PM
We are supposed to be loaded up and leaving. We are actually on the way to pick up our student-director, Scott. He was supposed to pick up the vans at about 2:30, but instead I'm getting him from his house. Needless to say, we will not be leaving on time.
1/28 3:50 PM
I climb up into the dark grey van that will be my home for the next 12 hours or so. I quickly discover that my dad was right when he described driving a passenger van as being, "like driving a box of cheerios". This thing has a turning radius of about half a mile, goes 0-60 in probably 10 minutes or so, and in no way whatsoever can be described with words like "sporty", "sexy", "aerodynamic", "fuel-efficient", or any other word you would use to describe a desirable vehicle.
1/28 4:45 PM
We are at Greg's house in Omaha. We have come there to get a tape adapter so that we can play CDs, otherwise we'll probably lose our fucking minds. While we're there, we get some duct tape to cover up the sign on the back of the van that says "THIS VAN'S MAXIMUM SPEED IS 65MPH. IF SPEEDING, CALL 1-800..." When we finish, you can see that there is clearly a big orange sign on the back of our van that has now had the text obscured with duct tape. I hope that nobody called the University while I was doing 80 on the way up to Omaha. We hit the road again.
1/28 7:15 PM
We are in Des Moines, and I'm eating McDonald's for the first time since seeing Super Size Me. Up to this point I had been eating a very healthy diet and exercising regularly. Now I'm eating fried food with cheese on it, washing it down with a pop, and then getting in a van and sitting for hours. The guilt that is pulsing through me is exceeded only by the greasy deliciousness of my double quarter-pounder with cheese. From somewhere inside, I hear my arteries scream, "NOOOOOOO!!!!!! WE WERE DOING SO WELL!!!!!!" I tried to get the guys to eat someplace decent, but the overwhelming consensus was that they'd rather save three bucks per meal and eat utter shit all weekend. After we finish our meal, we take our duct tape to where the other van is parked and cover up its sign about speeding. After that we make a big duct tape penis on their back window.
1/28 9:30
We learn that the other van is somewhere around Iowa City, while we are nearly in Illinois. The other van had been right behind us, but Scott somehow confused our van with a Jeep Cherokee and followed them off the interstate and got lost. Did I mention he smokes weed and drinks too much? Let it be known: getting wasted can turn you into a moron.
1/29 3:00 AM
I'm still driving. I've been the only one driving the entire time. I'm losing my mind. We pass Climax, Michigan, and think it is the funniest thing ever, especially because it's only a few miles from the interchange to take I-69 North. We call the other van to tell them that they'll want to go with 69 after they reach Climax. We wish we had a camera. We also realize that Michigan is on Eastern time, so we've lost an hour. We are not pleased at this.
1/29 4:30 AM
I am driving aimlessly around Lansing. I know the exact address of our hotel, but cannot find it because Link declined to put the road atlas or map to our hotel into the van when he transferred the items out of my car. Among the other things he didn't move from the trunk to the van: two air mattresses. More on that later.
1/29 4:50 AM
We have found our Super 8 hotel, and I'm struggling to check in because I've just driven 12 hours, and the Indian guy behind the counter is mumbling through the glass separating the desk from the lobby. I slide him my credit card and get room keys, and this is all I care about.
When I get to my room, I discover that there are hairs on either side of my pillow. My mind is awash with images of the horrible things that may have happened on these sheets which seem not to have been washed. I am too tired to care. I go to sleep.
1/29 6:45 AM
The guys from the other van have arrived. We have 3 hotel rooms for 15 guys, so obviously some people are looking at sleeping on the floor. This wouldn't be a problem had Dave remembered the air matresses...but he didn't. Matt Engler is relegated to sleeping with Tim Pederson on an air matress designed to hold one person. I wish I could witness this spectacle, but it would require me to get up and walk to another room, so I don't. All 4 guys now in the room are so tired that literally anything is funny. We laugh hysterically for about a half hour about things that aren't comical, then finally crash at around 7:15 AM.
1/29 11:15 AM
I wake up to the sound of my phone vibrating against the desk, as does everyone else in the room. It vibrates twice, then stops. This could only be Ashley sending me a text message. I try to go back to sleep, but I don't quite pull it off because the message alert on Will's phone keeps fucking beeping, and he's also taking up more than half the bed. I am acutely aware of how much I prefer sharing a bed with Ashley to sharing a bed with Will, and I decide to check my text message. It's her complaining about how her roommates woke her up. Irony, anyone? I spend the next half hour or so angrily texting Ashley about how she woke me up...not because I'm especially mad, but because I like to give her shit.
1/29 12:10 PM
Scott comes into our room with two plastic cups. Each cup is filled about 1/3 of the way with an anonymous green liquid. Scott explains that since the hotel does not provide complimentary bottles of the little shampoos, he went and asked the Indian guys at the desk for some shampoo. They, evidently, took a big bottle of Pert Plus from behind the desk and poured some into plastic cups. This was to be our community shampoo. At this point I'm really glad I brought my own shampoo and my own towel. Half the group is waiting for the Indian guys to finish drying towels so that they can shower. I'm already clean.
1/29 1:00 PM
The Dogs will be performing in the standard dress shirt/tie and jeans ensemble tonight, so I go to the front desk to see about getting an iron so that I can remove the multitude of wrinkles from my dress shirt as well as the pleats that my dryer put into my jeans. Good news is that the Indian guys have an iron. The bad news, they tell me, is that there is no ironing board. One guy turns to the other and through his thick accent says "Yeah, we should really buy one of those." I try to avoid showing my disbelief at how crappy the hotel is and go back to my room to iron on the wooden desk. I'm sure that's not a fire hazard.
1/29 6:10 PM
We are in sound check for the competition, and it is becoming rapidly evident that the guy running the sound board doesn't know shit about sound board operating. We basically have to tell him exactly how we will be placing our microphones, and what level the mics should be. I sound check my solo, and tell him that I'll want my mic turned down "a lot" lower than it is for the show. More on that later.
1/29 7:30 PM
Half an hour until show time, and our dressing room smells horrible. At least half the group has crapped in the bathroom, which is really little more than a cement closet with a toilet in it. We're basically trying to stay awake considering the most sleep any of us got is around 4 hours. We're passing time by making fun of each other and throwing things at each other's genitals. Showtime cannot arrive soon enough...
1/29 8:40 PM
We're heading into the last song of our set, and it's going very well. The audience, while at first in disbelief, eventually accepted the fact that we did sing "I Wanna Sex You Up" by Color Me BADD for our second song, and even liked it. It's now time for my solo, and I can feel a wave of nervousness wash over me. My throat gets dry, my breathing gets shallow, and I get PISSED. I haven't been nervous to sing in years. What the fuck?!? The song starts off well enough, and I'm mellowing out, and then once I get to the verse, the sound guy turns my mic way up. SON OF A BITCH. Now I have to sing really quietly to keep from blowing out the audience and totally drowning out the group behind me. Not only that, but having to sing quietly is probably the hardest thing to do when you're already nervous and dried out. Long story short, I kinda choke and end up giving a really average performance. While not terrible, it might be the worst I've done the song, and that makes me cranky.
1/29 10:40 PM
We find out that we've gotten second place, which means we will advance to the Regional Semifinals in Madison, Wisconsin. I am no longer pissy about my solo now, because I realize that I could have knocked it out of the fucking park and we'd still have been second. The guys who get first were ridiculously awesome to watch, so we probably weren't even close to them in points. Jeff Orosco wins the award for best soloist, and we are pretty pleased for having come into Michigan and beaten all the Michigan groups. Only the University of Illinois group has topped us. We are pleased at our quasi-victory, and will now go get drunk.
1/29 11:00 PM
We are driving back to the hotel to change, and at the urging of somebody in the back of the van, I stop to ask a group of girls if they need a ride to the party. They surprisingly accept, and pile into the van. It quickly becomes evident that at least one of them has become a psycho Bathtub Dogs groupie since we performed. I learn that they're all freshman, most of them are stupid, and basically all of them really wanna do us. I haven't been able to figure out if they're cute yet, because they're wearing coats and I'm still driving the van. One of them tries to tell me that we're driving the wrong way to go to our hotel, but I elect not to listen to her. I am right to make this choice, because 15 minutes and a beer stop later, we're back at the Super 8, as is our other van. I hop out and yell, "I picked up beer and Freshmen! Just a quick change and we're ready to party!"
1/29 11:45 PM
We have arrived at the party, which is being held at some crappy house. The place is packed with people. We spend about the first 20 minutes pressed up against the wall in a narrow hallway that leads to the kitchen. Evidently nobody has managed to tap the keg yet, but I don’t care because I have my own beer. At this point I get a good look at the girls we picked up. None of them is hot. Not even a little bit. The best-looking one of them, “TheDecentOne” is maybe a 7 out of 10. One of them might be cute if she were in shape and didn’t have teeth pointing at every possible angle. Now that I get a good look around the party, I notice two things:
1) There are maybe 5 girls here.
2) They are all ugly.
1/30 12:05 PM
I am told to go up to the 3rd floor of the house, because evidently there are couches and a stripper pole up there. I am enticed not so much by the pole, but the couches. I go upstairs and sit on a couch, and continue drinking while I stare blankly at other people in the room and listen to the skipping CD playing on somebody’s crappy stereo. Some of the girls have followed us up there, and I am presently very worried that some of them might take their clothes off if they get drunk. Soon somebody comes up to tell us we can’t be up there, and I’m relieved.
1/30 12:40 AM
Somebody has spit out gum on a chair in a very dark room, and I’ve sat in it. I am now picking gum off my jeans and sending text messages to Ashley because that’s more fun than the party. TheDecentOne is flirting with me. I’d flirt back if she wasn’t a freshman and totally self-involved. She takes my phone away from me, but quickly gives it back after she sees that I'm going to get pissed rather than engage in further flirtation to get it back. I get the rest of the gum off my jeans and begin making fun of people who are “dancing” in the living room. I put dancing in quotations because they dance precisely like you’d expect drunken white kids from Michigan to dance.
1/30 1:00 AM
I’m in the kitchen, singing a song I don’t know with guys from at least 5 different acapella groups. Scott starts making fun of me from across the room because I had previously warned the rest of the guys in the group not to be “that guy” who does exactly what I’m presently doing. I’d care more, but I’m starting to get drunk, and anything is more fun than sitting in the other room watching people try to dance.
1/30 3:00 AM
We are leaving the party, and the girls we’ve met hug us all before we go. TheDecentOne hugs me just a little too long considering I’m somebody she just met and she hasn’t been drinking. On the way outside, I somehow get talked into carrying some random girl to her car, which is around the back of the house. That having been done, we all pile into the van and instruct Shoes (our designated driver) to take us to get food.
1/30 3:15 AM
I am drunk dialing people and telling them all about the acapella competition, as though they’ll understand or care. I call at least 8 people.
1/30 3:35 AM
We are at White Castle, and I’m talking to Ashley. I’m moderately drunk, and even still the smell of grease is powerful. We decide that 5 of us will split what the people of White Castle call a “crave case”. It contains 30 little cheeseburgers. It takes a ridiculous amount of time to get our food, but I don’t notice because I spend most of my time perched atop the trash bin, drunkenly narrating our activities to Ashley and quoting Anchorman. The Burger King employees across the room think we are hilarious, but we're not sure why.
1/30 3:50 AM
We are eating our “crave case”. I am drunk, and this shit still doesn’t taste good. The case consists of 30 “sliders”, which are basically half-sized cheeseburgers that are so greasy they come with holes in the bun. They also have onions on them. I eat my six and imagine the digestive horrors that will likely result from mixing this crap with beer. More on that later.
1/30 11:00 AM
Despite our plans to get up at 9:30, we’ve only just gotten up. We pack, pick up some doughnuts and hit the road. I drive until we get into eastern Iowa, and then move to stretch out in the back of the van at about 6:00 PM.
1/30 6:30 PM
The first of my White Castle/beer farts is released. The smell is much akin to rotting flesh stuffed with onions. Everyone in the van is instantly infuriated, and Greg attempts to stick his nose out the 2” gap created by opening the back window so that he can get fresh air. I’m so tired that everything is funny to me again. I'm laughing hysterically at the scene. I can feel a whole lot more gas on the way. This is going to be hilarious.
1/30 7:30 PM
Greg is ready to go on a killing spree. Over the last hour I’ve been upping the ante with my farts, having gone from just farting to farting and wafting it at Greg, to farting on Greg’s head, and ultimately to dropping my pants and farting on Greg’s head with my bare ass. He’s averaging about 0.78 seconds from the time I fart until the time the horrid stench assaults his nostrils and he lunges for the window to seek oxygen. Nobody in the van is pleased with the smell, but everyone else thinks Greg’s reactions are hilarious. This is even funnier than the time I subjected everyone on my plane home from D.C. to my Captain Morgan/Chipotle farts.
1/30 10:30 PM
We have arrived back in Lincoln, and are vacuuming out the van and removing the duct tape from the back. Several people comment on how we can vacuum up the chips and dirt from the floor, but the stench of my White Castle farts and everyone’s sweat will probably never come out. I drop everyone off, return the van and head back home. It wasn’t much of a road trip, but it had its amusing points.
posted by Beav at 4:18 PM
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