Rules of the Road Trip

Today’s post is all about road trips because the subject gorged 6 hours of my day yesterday. Twenty minutes on the interstate and I experienced the ultimate road trip nightmare: driving while wedged in between a caravan of Asian families in swagger wagons and a Lincoln land yacht packed with wrinkleys on a field trip from the assisted living center. Living on the west coast for three months, I gained an immense amount of knowledge regarding Asian culture. First off, they are indeed much more intelligent than the white race. Secondly, the walking habits of the Asian people are equally as terrible as their driving skills. They may breed astrophysicists and world-class growth-stunted robot gymnasts, but they can’t drive—or walk—worth shit. Never get caught behind an Asian in a vehicle or on a crowded narrow sidewalk. At first you think it’s just another tech-obsessed teen texting while strolling, however as you pass by the Asian you see no phone and instead witness an Asian deep in thought, calculating the implications of each step—as if it were the first they’d every taken. I don’t quite understand it because I’ve seen videos of Tokyo on TV and those little bastards move a mile a minute on their own turf. Personally, I think that they are all spies for the Koreans and have to walk slowly enough to pick up radio frequencies or maybe I’m just extremely paranoid. Now the elderly are just on a completely different playing field altogether. Number one, how is it comfortable to drive close enough to the steering wheel to potentially procreate with it? Secondly, if you’re lenses are thick enough to double as coke bottles, you may not have the eyesight allowing you to safely operate a moving vehicle. Finally, just because you think that you still have all of your faculties at age eighty-five, the train of vehicles travelling at idle speed behind you would beg to differ. My grandma had her license until age seventy, when my mom refused to allow her to continue driving on sidewalks and mowing down our neighbor’s mailbox on a weekly basis. The breaking point, however, was when mom and I were at a stoplight and were rear ended from behind. We both turn around and see good ole granny looking out the window pretending like she didn’t just rear-end her own family at a random intersection. My mom gets out of the car and grandma refuses to roll down the window. Knowing it's a battle we can't win, we travel home where grandma maintains that she didn’t in fact just charge us in the ass with her Pontiac Grand Am. That day marked a new era where granny had her license taken but covertly continued to drive illegally... without side mirrors but with a vengeance for any poor soul traveling in her path. 

Driving long distances by yourself blows donkey fetus, but I’ve made the 6-hour devil trek so many times that I’ve perfected the solo road trip. Speaking of fetus, when I finally win the Powerball, my first venture is going toe to toe with those abortion billboards. For every “my heart beats one minute past conception,” you get a giant Chuck Norris holding a giant aborted sheep fetus… or a billboard with a chainsaw and the Partridge Family saying "this could've been prevented...ask us how! - Planned Parenthood." I’d like to know how much cheddar these whacks spend on those awful advertisements. It's probably the same people that think the world is ending by way of scorpion assailants. We get it… you don’t want people to kill babies, well I don’t want people to step on my toes in crowded venues, but we can’t always get what we want. I digress, back to the rules of road trips. The first rule is ALWAYS have a solid set of jams. Choose wisely because the music genre you choose subconsciously affects your travel tempo. Techno=speeding—especially if you’re a toolbox driving a mini cooper, feeling the necessity to drive like you’re an extra in the Italian Job. Alternative=steady pace. Reggae=cruise control. Country=crashing point blank into a levy because you’re listening to awful music. During long trips, music is also catalyst for a number of other enjoyable road trip activities such as: practicing your So You Think You Can Dance audition routine, anally raping some Weezy rhymes and, my personal fav, perfecting my Elton John impersonation so next time the Panda I live with tells everyone she sounds “Just like Elton” during one of our Tiny Dancer renditions, I can step up and vocally bitch slap her.. like just like I did with that tomato on Spring Break. Taste it Panda (=P). 

The next road trip rule is making sure to pack a bevy of roadie snacks. Check mix, trail mix, chewy spree, Slim Jims, ham hocks—whatever you’re into. Just make sure you’re well stocked because otherwise you’re making a pit stop for cat food. But if you can stomach fast food, which is easily eatable while driving, then just make sure you prepare yourself for the nausea that ensues when you unearth a medium fry under your seat in the same physical state as when you acquired them straight from the roach infested fryer three months prior.  However, if you are a master of solo road trips, you have undoubtedly learned to Macgyver your way through a Subway sandwich or even a salad—if you’re man enough. I have perfected the art of driving with my knee; although, in all fairness, I was born with abnormally extended appendages giving me an obvious advantage. This also comes in handy if you’ve got something stuck to your windshield and need to pull it off while recklessly cruising at 85mph. On my trip home I managed to conquer an ultimate veggie and escape with minor shredded lettuce lap and a jalapeño P.O.W. lodged somewhere in my brassiere (and, no that’s not a race joke aimed at the Mexican community). I accomplished this feat while simultaneously changing songs on the iPod and dodging workers in a construction zone. I did inadvertently switch lanes a few times, but if you don’t overtly sideswipe someone, you can usually get away with playing it cool and giving them the “I meant to cut you off” wrist flick. Now this final rule is important. Sometimes jamz and snacks can only occupy your attention leading into hour four. But if you have the attention span of a retarded dog, yet find immense amusement chasing your own tail—this rule is for you. 

Rule numero tres: GAMES. When you’re alone you may feel like a dumbass playing silly games by yourself, but I am a dumbass so I don’t care. For beginners, I’d recommend just pretending that you’re an educated version of a NASCAR driver and pick an opponent to “race.” Now, don’t be an idiot and pick the guy in the corvette going through his mid-life crisis because I’d bet my first born that he’s already looking to race in his chumpmobile with the vanity plate reading: “NO WIFE." And since he probably practices his drag racing daily near the service entrance of whatever stuffy gated community he lives in, you’re absolutely going to lose. And no one wants to lose a game they created—especially not to prematurely balding 40-year-old man wearing an affliction tee and True Religion jeans. So instead pick someone who isn’t aware of the game you’re playing and for the next twenty miles or so: tailgate them closely and angrily, then whip in front of their vehicle, cutting them off. Hang back for a few beats and then repeat. While this sounds redundant and you may call it stupid, you wouldn’t believe how much time it kills… and you’re stupid. A second game I enjoy playing is The Cockbox—it’s not as dirty as it sounds. The object is simple: don’t let the asshole behind you pass. I get into the fast lane and slow down to about 75 then—like clockwork—there’s always that suped-up Honda civic that comes charging out of thin air and starts tailgating you, flashing their lights and trying to guilt you into changing lanes… don’t do it. Instead just when it seems like they are about to hurtle around you, speed up. They will think you decided to stop being a grandma and actually drive. Continue at increased velocity until you come parallel with another vehicle in the slow lane, then decelerate to their velocity, boxing in the person behind you. Then giggle and count the number of “F YOU’s” you receive. Finally, smile, wave and change lanes. This game once resulted in me being flipped off for thirty consecutive seconds by an 90 year old man hanging out of his sunroof. Sometimes you can be a little more creative with your gaming. During my mustache phase, we took a road trip to Mississippi that tallied somewhere near a whopping ten hours one-way. During this stint, I was fortunate enough to be copilot and had just purchased a “days of the week” stache pack that provided every adhesive facial hair opportunity imaginable from a Hitler stache to a curly cue. I doled out staches to the passengers like pez. Then myself and a passenger in the back seat stuck half our bodies out of the window, flagged down some truckers, covered our hairlips and gave them the sex eyes. And just as these disgusting men began making some completely inappropriate sexual gestures, we removed our hands revealing perfectly manicured female facial hair and contorted expressions. Other than confusion, we also nearly caused two wrecks and gained a joy ride-esque follower.

My Kinda Trucker

On a solo occasion, I one made a pit stop at the holy grail of service stations in an area near Lake City where it's perfectly legal—even encouraged—to be in a civil union with your sister. This wondrous fecally stained establishment boasted an entire section of prank toys and gag gifts. I completed my purchase with a tank of gas, a red bull and one of those pairs of incognito glasses with the bulbous nose and the bushy stache/brow combo attached. I rocked this disguise while ferociously weaving through traffic pretending I was the getaway car for DMX in one of his awful cop flicks. Then I got pulled over by a pig in khaki and the game wasn’t fun anymore.