For the sake of new readers, I am going to go back to something I posted in my defunct diaryland blog years ago. We are going to revisit the story of a day that started off bad and could only go downhill.

Great. As I try to get dressed, CNN is running in the background. I am informed by Sanjay Gupta that I am sorely in need of a testicular exam and a digital rectum test. I didn't know it was possible to cringe on both sides of the continental divide. Horrified at the thought of ball cancer, I turn it to the local channel and its funny locally produced ads in between news about Jimbob's lost cow and the local 4-H scandal involving the sheeppleaser of the century. At one point I misheard an ad and thought I heard them say something about Hick Mustang driving CountryThug of the Year but I must have heard wrong. Doesn't make it any less true though.

I finally get out of the house and am heading towards an even smaller, more depressing town 30 miles west of mine. I must pass the entire gammut of wonderful "Dont run out of gas hear because yo' purty mouth'll get busted" areas along with their red lights where you can't be left alone from all the morons in Camaros with their hats on backwards, fitted cap right down low enough on the ol' unibrow just in the right way to point out how stupid the retard is in the driver's seat. You know the kind, wears overalls by day, FUBU by night and uses a dialect of English that isn't entirely the one he uses with momma and daddy come Sunday morning at little church in the country. Tupac was alright, but he was ruined by these people in my eyes. I can never listen to him because I think of a school called West Jones. (If you need to understand that, you'll get it.)

Anyway, I finally get to the sad, little depressing town 30 miles west of my own sad, little depressing town and stop at the local breakfast den. Now, I'm not sure if all of you are familiar with these joints, but it's usually the local clone of McDonalds or Dunkin Donuts. No sir, the Starbucks crowd has most definitely NOT infiltrated these corners of society. Electricity is still magical in these areas, and the wheel still posesses a fond sense of novelty among the locals. If you were to walk in these joints, you are expected to know everyone, know where they sit, who they are kin to, and the employees are supposed to summon a plate of biscuts, grits, gravy, bacon and sausage, along with coffee and water to whomever looks at them and declares "Ah'll huv the reg'lur, sweethaaart. How's yo mommer n 'em?" If you aren't a local, expect necks to creek and go Excorcist on you as they gawk with mouths hanging open, often with a cigarette hanging from the corner of their puckered, sun-wrinkled mouths. Expect worse if you are of the minority persuasion or are accompanied by someone who isn't as hideously pale as your lilly white ass. You can almost hear the proverbial needle go screeching off the record as you walk in and actually LOOK at the menu as you decide what to order.

It was at one of these very establishments I stopped at. It had that quality a buzzard tree does after the years of fetid buzzard feces finally kill the tree, and it's a dead reminder to the world of what happens when one is chosen as 'roost of the year' by buzzards. I get out, and after ordering my food three times to get it through to the cashier what I wanted, sat down. Food was good, but on the greasy side and sat in the stomach like a medium size bag of quickcrete. As I was eating, a man came in on what can only be described as flesh-toned stilts. He didn't bother to get the good prosthetic legs. Nope, he violated some poor manequin, and in his haste didn't even get the feet. These were just oval-shaped cylinders he had, with his shorts, suspenders, and tshirt. It's something I'll never forget, watching him leap to reach the Equal sweetener and cursing anyone who tried to help him. Horrified, my stomach began to hurt as I waited on my coworker to show up.

I felt the need to go to the restroom after three minutes, and after sprinting to the back, sat down to do the inevitable. While in the safe confines of the large stall, I heard the sound a deckhand must hear at night as the pirate captain paces the length of the deck. Only this was in double time since both legs were gone OH MY GOD MIRANDA BEARD MAKE IT STOPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

Wait. Sorry. I had to turn off the TV because a monster appeared. (My grandma calls her 'queen bee'.)

Anyway, the Second-Offense Pirate comes clackety-clacking into the bathroom. My innate macabre sensibilities go the best of me, prompting me to peer nervously through the crack in the door frame with a sense of perverse anticipation of the following series of events. But wait, what's this? He doesn't need the urinal? What then? NO! Here he comes to the Handi-stall to my left (which I normally choose due to the sink. Glad i didn't that day...). He gets in, doesn't even attempt to close the door, and BAM! There went one leg skittering across the floor of the bathroom. I heard a sound similar to a suction cup coming unstuck, and POP! BAM! SSSSSSSHHHZZHAHAHA...there went the other leg. Then the shorts with the suspenders. While on the floor, he apparently grabbed the parallel bars and vaulted himself into a 180 twist, landing squarely on the toilet. I didn't know whether to cry, to triumphantly applaud him, or to run out with my pants still down. Then the most monstrous evacuation I've ever heard in a human being ensued. I whimpered "Dear God, what is happening here?!"

Then I opted to run.

I made a hasty wipe, ran out to the sink, CRAP! no soap. I find a can of powdered comet, and wash my hands raw with the scrubbing power of bleach (Tm). As I'm running out, I slip on a paper mat they put on the fast food trays and almost go face first into a garbage bin. Somehow, my cat-like fat kid reflexes went into overdrive and I pulled off a miraculous save as I ran out the door and sprinted towards my car. I didn't want him to recognize my shoes when he came out, you know, just in case he had a gun.

As I run toward my truck, I notice that a pig farmer has decided to pull in alongside my truck. He's standing there with straw literally poking out of his mullet. Overalls, no shirt, tattoo on his mantits, the works. Then, when he finally walks past, the smell hits me. His animal cargo REEK.

Then the pig's wang points toward my truck and arcs this perfectly round stream of steaming pig urine onto my truck, satisfying his urges for at least twenty seconds. Then I notice the pig feces all over the ground and the other puddles of pig piss. I decided to get out of there as soon as possible.

Boring meeting, no lunch money, and got back home to find out my wife had received a speeding ticket. 52 in a 30. Said she was late for work.

Sigh.