08/10/2005 - 8:51 a.m. | cousin refused entry

I had a pleasant weekend, all right? Actually, pretty much all weekends are pleasant now compared with the soul-sucking hell that is my day job, but all things considered. I enjoyed myself.

Drove to Kansas, all right, wearing cowboy hat as my new headgear for driving. I just keep stacking truths on top of truths. For instance, everyone hates being passed by a guy driving a fucking maroon station wagon. They hate even more being passed by a guy in a fucking maroon station wagon covered in so many magnetic ribbons as to be ironic. Most of all, they hate being passed in a maroon ribbon-covered station wagon being driven by a guy in a faggot felt cowboy hat. And I was in a passing mood. Apparently, passing on the right is some sort of taboo (Have I mentioned this before?), but if I hadn�t done that shit, I�d be back in Columbia, MO, still � on my way there. Pretty much I had to weave constantly to get by the lines and lines of cretins who think they can pass other cars. I finally decided I am going to make some Traveler�s Signs and laminate them. Actually, maybe I won�t laminate them because I want to make them with those markers that smell like stuff, and I wouldn�t want to lose valuable smelling time. They will mostly say things like, �YOU SUCK AT DRIVING� or �YOU MAKE EVERY MOMENT OF MY LIFE WORSE� or �I HAT YOU.� And obviously, �SHOW US YOUR FUNBAGS� I will have to make a system of magnets or something so that I can easily switch them.

I was getting some crazy road rage, though. There was this one hag in a red minivan, and she was being a real cunt, not letting me get over and such, and every time she caught up to me when I was trapped behind some slow fucker, I would start yelling and clenching my hands and punching things. And when these shitheads boxed me in at one point so that I couldn�t move onto an exit and had to keep driving, I terrorized them for about ten minutes, yelling profanities the whole time. I hope one of them was a lip reader.

Anyway, good thing I sped so excessively, as Missy was gone when I got there. Actually, as I may have said, everyone was gone at that point, so I was sort of at a loss. Missy came home eventually, of course, and we made sweet love (or whatever it is long-separated couples do), but mostly I wanted to watch Nick GaS, lol. Nearly all of her family was in town for sister-in-law Alli�s birthday; I am still fairly convinced that none of them like me in the least. I don�t think Jim said one word to me the whole time, and I want Jim�s love so badly. He knows Dave Eggers personally now, in that he is writing part of a book for him. Call him �Dave.� Sigh. Missy says it�s just because they all act different with their parents around and that if we had gone with them to St. Louis for their little excursion, it would have been a lot different. I remain wholly unconvinced and feel that were Circumstances better, they would all love my ass. It�s the same thing with most people � I can only make a good impression with a few helpful modifiers. No, alcohol is not required, but it probably can�t hurt either. 1) I need someone to play off of. I am real bad at just talking like a normal guy, as adults don�t have as many questions available as kids (�So� how is your� job? Whatever that may be��), but if there is someone I know, I have a backbone to work off, shared jokes, someone I can make fun of with impunity, etc. 2) I must be allowed to swear. Most grownups are so terrified by the f-bomb and such that whenever I am around them, I have to slow down and mentally edit anything I say, taking colorful terms and the like out. Sure, it keeps me clean, but it takes away the spontaneity that fuels my mad wit. Plus, swears are inherently entertaining on their own. 3) Actually, eliminate all taboos. Amy has Downs Syndrome, so I also have to be constantly on my guard to not back my way into some sort of trap there. They are all fairly liberal additionally, so if I say something too far out, I might offend their P.C. sensibilities, and we can�t have that. In conclusion, talking to grownups is boring. I will start telling lies to make it more worthwhile. �Yes, I was in the National Guard! Semper fie!�

Me: �Aw, your knees are all banged up.�
Missy: (meaningful look)
Me: �Ohhh��

Man alive, Amy has the most fucking disgusting feet I have ever seen. It�s not her fault they are so deformed and twisted, but lordy the effects that twistedness have! She gets these insane huge calluses that look more like giant death warts, and her toenails are too gnarly to cut, so they are long as fuck, and they are just in general very much like an abstract representation of a foot. I was sitting on the floor by the piano, and she put one of her feet on me, and I was like, �GAAAAH!� And thus, there goes my ability to get a boner for a week.

HA DOUBT IT

I finally gave Missy her birthday presents, which in my infinite wisdom I had only bought the previous day. They are:

1) Teachery rubber stamps and stickers (for the future educator)
2) Cubs ringer t-shirt (lord knows why she wanted it)
3) New wristwatch (as the old was ugly as sin)
4) iPod Sock (not exactly purchased, but God, 5 for 40 bucks?!)
5) �heart� by Stars (Thank you, unearthed amazon.com wishlist)

Maybe not the most impressive haul, but she seemed excited. Perhaps because unlike, say, Tracy�s boyfriend Frank (who buys such gifts as tea and dollar store necklaces), my gifts occasionally reflect the fact that I am listening to her and the not-so-subtle hints all girls drop.

That night we watched In America, which was very charming with its Irish people and near-constant stream of death, etc. The two little girls in it were just adorable, and the dad was all cute with his accents and shit, and the big black guy with AIDS wasn�t as mean as he looked, blah blah blah. It was good. My children will have darling little accents, or they will find themselves in darling little accidents.

It is not a good start to a day when in your dream Rhett Miller dies. I was at the funeral, bawling, and that made my even sadder because I did not even cry at my own grandfather�s funeral. On the plus side, Jim Varney (Ernest P. Worrel) was back from the dead and was dating some hottie in the middle of the blizzard-encased town I was in. In fact, I might have actually been in the fictional town invented for the Cuba Gooding, Jr. vehicle Snow Dogs.

The next day did not start early. Missy�s brothers and sisters left for St. Louis, and we stayed behind to do our� things that we do. UHHHHHH ERRANDS?! We went out for coffee with Amy and then to J. Crew to look at far too expensive ties and blazers for me, then home to make reservations for this (urg) Pan-Asian place in Kansas City that Missy�s parents were giving us a gift card for. It was� not very good. Well, the avocado egg rolls were all right, and the cheddar potatoes were great, but our giant pasta entrees were hella mediocre. We must have looked tres anorexic, the tiny couple getting huge plates and then eating about three bites. �No, we just hate your food!� Oh well, I had the sweet pleasure of a pineapple martini to wash the pain down. Hell yes, bitches! Sean D. Mills in other states! Of course, I�m 21 in less than a month and will have to return the blessed thing (My hair is preparing to return to its natural brownish state), but me and Sean better have some last hurrahs, am I right?

From there we got some ripoff Tropical Sno (Lulu�s Hawaiian Ice, my ass). I got �Ninja Turtle,� which was lime plus an entire field of sugar cane. Seriously, man, this shit was painful sweet. Like, I worry about comas and amputated feet now sweet. Luckily, we had stopped at Target earlier to poop, and I had purchased some energy gum on a whim. �Just two pieces is the same as a cup of coffee!� Plus useful vitamins and such. Well, it turned out the two pieces were massive, each the size of a die approximately. They were also fucking shit terrible. So amazingly bitter. In Organic Chemistry once, I licked pure caffeine (just to prove to Mr. Lawrence that Josh Kinney and I had at least managed to extract some caffeine from the 8 tea bags we had been given), and this didn�t taste far off. I had to occasionally remove the wad from my mouth to try and get my footing back. And did it even make me that peppy? I don�t know, man, but I also don�t know how often I normally chuck cups of gross Hawaiian Ice at a stop sign in some hell suburb. It was a crazy weekend, my friends. Crazy.

Missy�s parents, like all old people, have an endless stream of parties to attend, usually that strange mix of celebration and death that we�ve come to expect from the elderly. In fact, I was positive one of the invitations they received was for a funeral (Black gauzy ribbon, picture of sun setting behind tree, psalm), but it was actually just the most depressing wedding invite ever! WELCOME� TO ETERNITY! But fuck, suddenly we are being told to stop by for a visit, and I do not recall signing on for this sort of thing. So I�m being drug around, introduced to this and that, kind of thinking how my own family might be preferential in this case, but mostly eyeing Pretty Much Not Mediocre At All Beerslut Chick. �Look at me!� I�d mentally yell, glaring at her. �Yesssss� that�s correct! I am a male of roughly your age and complementary genital organs! Now smile back! Gooooood! No, ignore her, she�s just my girlfriend! I like your white shorts and layered tank topssssssss�� And occasionally I would be brought back to earth to explain how exactly Missy and I had met even though we are from different, competing states. Or talk about math for some reason. Oh, that�s right. My high school. Yes, I do know the Quadratic Equation. Tattooed across my chest, actually. I will drink poison if anyone has any.

We got out and then drove straight to Tracy�s place to start the drinking for the evening. This entailed finding a person to buy us the booze, but happily they knew of just that sort of a man. But Lord, what was his name? I know his fianc�e Michelle, who Missy coerced out of straight-edgedom to chug car bombs with them all night long, the same who painted her own Barbie dolls and constructed primitive bead jewelry and who somehow loved Tracy�s two huge, insane dogs, but if you aren�t interesting (or don�t have boobs), apparently you get passed right up in my name-o-meter. Nameometer. Chris, I remember. Chris, nice guy, everyone said. Chris who had drunkenly soaked an entire apartment with a fire extinguisher and, when questioned, would only assure you that �they refill these things for free.� Chris who (as I lay there, comforting poor drunken Missy later) started defending Scientology, causing me to leap down the stairs and start yelling about what a sham it was, about the Sea Org and Xenu and all that crazy shit. Chris, who somehow still managed to remain incredulous. �Well, what is your source?� he asks. Kyle fucking Wild, says I. Stares abound. �Who is this guy?� they wonder. Chris, who acted like an expert about the police and would have no doubt been billyclubbed over the head had he actually had an encounter with an officer. Chris, I remember. The rest of you guys are faggots.

Well, not Pat. Pat is another one I want to impress. �Nate, do you smoke?� �Hell yes, I do, Patrick!� (For you, I add mentally) Let us retire to the porch and have us some sweet, sweet nicotine. I only coughed once too! And while the other faggots had this horrible, horrible argument about who invented punk first, the Ramones or the Sex Pistols, Pat and I inhaled guacamole in the kitchen and said regarding them, �Faggots.� Cigarette made my mouth taste bad, and the plant power of gin couldn�t solve, so our only hope was the most garlic-y burning guacamole in the whole world.

I had my gin drink, and Missy had her car bombs and �Us Weekly� I bought her and some beer besides, and she was fairly well pissed when she heard about my tendency to strip. There we go again with me trying to tell the truth and getting all fucked in the ass again. I don�t know why you�re upset; I�m not upset, and I�m the one who did it! Surely if anyone were to be upset by being so easily coerced into nudity, it should be me, the one made nude, but no! She has not shut up about it ever since. The truth shall set you free!!

When we came back to Tracy�s after getting drinking supplies, we noticed a good deal more cars on her street than usual. A little inspection revealed another party down the street. High school party. Fuck yes. So once Tracy, Missy, and I were good and wasted (and had tired of further arguments about the merits of punk music and James and the Giant Peach), we fucking stumbled our way over to the house in question. Missy was drunk enough to be in her special �Tell It Like It Is� mood, where more or less all the bad stuff I have put into her soul over the past year (e.g. the making fun of everyone) comes out in a bloody orgy of death. Spongy. Bloody spongy orgy. All the rage towards the popular kids in high school, as she gives the finger to about anyone as she runs around like� like� well, I guess you�ve probably never seen a wet noodle run, but that�s what it would look like. Not the most stable structure, as you might guess.

Anyway, we arrive at the party, and Missy immediately races to the fridge (How did she know where it was at?) to grab as much booze as she can. Tracy and I keep an eye on her and spend the rest of our time asking everyone the same question: �Wait, how old are you?� �Fifteen� Oh fuck. Oh fuck. 15 is so YOUNG! And they are all getting drunk here, all the popular kids! I was going to say that Missy could fit right in, but the 15 year olds looked older than her, so now I don�t know what to compare her to. The one slutty girl had huge boobs, and the boys all had facial hair, and what the hell? We never had these things at that age. Maybe that was why we weren't the cool kids. No, not the Dungeons & Dragons � the lack of late stage puberty. �Where are you guys from?� I lie and name one of the random high schools I�ve learned of since visiting the area. �Shawnee Mission West?! I go there, too! What year are you?!� Shit! �Uh, senior�� �Why haven�t I seen you around?!� �Gotta go!�

Anyway, Missy hunts around for booze, finally finding a bottle of some melon lacquer (I am trying to spell �likoor� correctly, but Microsoft Word keeps suggesting �lacquer� until I was finally convinced) that I manage to wrench away from her and stuff into my pants. Who buys these children booze anyway? We college kids have enough trouble; how the fuck do they manage? Missy starts tearing around the house, booting full beer cans and shit over, trying to find who actually lives there. She does; they chat briefly � everyone sort of fails to see the point. She then takes off upstairs. As much as I would love to watch her interrupt some pubescent fooling around (and maybe get invited to join in??), we grab her and manage to get her out the door. She has two half-full cans of beer in hand, which she promptly tosses into the air. �Woooo!� We are splattered in beer. Like so many shrimp.

We�re heading back, and a car pulls up next to us and some more high school dudes get out. They set their extra large cans of Coors Light on the roof and are chatting up Tracy and her big tits and me (*elaborate handshake* �What�s up? I�m Snake B.� Uh, hello, Snake B.) while Missy sneaks behind unnoticed and grabs two of the cans, stalking off to do this hilarious victory dance immediately thereafter. �Gotta go, Snake B.�

Perfect timing, too, because a cop car is coming our way shortly thereafter and immediately goes on a rampage, starting with Snake B. and his posse and moving on to the entirety of the party as far as we can tell. We walk off (Missy calmly dumps her stolen beer on the ground), trying to go as fast as possible and still remain casual. It seems to work. We get back to Tracy�s, and as she�s entering the code for garage door, one of the kids from the high school party comes running up. �You�ve got to let me inside, guys. I�m gonna be so fucked if I�m caught.� But that isn�t a friend who is running up to catch him; no, that�s a cop. �Were you running from me, son?� �No, I �� It was apparently a rhetorical question, though, because in an instant the cop has his cuffs out and is fucking arresting the kid right there!! OH GODS! The terror on the kid�s face was the most amazing thing I have ever seen, and as the cop drags him off (He�s still staring at us) and as we rush inside to get the door shut, I might actually have said a little prayer for him. The shithead.

We�re recounting our tale inside (and passing about the Midori) when all of a sudden, we get a pounding at the door. Hello, police. Most likely, I should have been the one to speak with them (as strangely enough I seem to have the greatest amount of contact with them) � or at least Chris, so he could get his ass pounded � but Tracy sent random 21 year old to the door, only to be summoned there shortly herself. We didn�t get in any trouble or anything, but it freaked the hell out of Tracy, who just started hugging everyone and sight and running around and crying. Police tend to do that to people, the assholes. So we�re out on the porch, talking about it, and I apparently yelled something (I don�t know what), which of course immediately summoned the cops so that they could hassle Tracy into complete madness. Okay, that one is my bad, guys, but they were just being pricks. Well, maybe it was good I didn�t go talk to the cops, as I probably would have said not polite things to them. �You do not use your butthole for a holster� chief amongst them.

Missy, in standard Missy Encounters the Police Mode, immediately took off and hid in Tracy�s room. Both times. She later emerged all drunk and depressed (mostly drunk) that she had indirectly caused the cops to arrive and made Tracy cry. Frank was not helping by calling us idiots, and pretty soon Missy was fairly sure everyone hated her. Plus she was sick. Nothing like watching your girlfriend induce vomiting, am I right? She then passed out on the floor for a while where I stroked her hair and sang Ben Folds Five songs in her ear. I was pretty drunk, too, but I handle it better (�When you�re not stripping for people!� Missy mentally appends).

Eventually, she sobered up about enough to go home and say good night to her parents. I had maybe perhaps not sobered enough to drove far, but the two blocks from Tracy�s to Missy�s was fairly doable. ROTTEN SEGUE: And speaking of fairly doable, Missy must have thought I was at the moment, so I ignored the vomit taste and forged ahead. ROTTEN SUGUE. Speaking of ahead! Nevermind, nevermind. I should point out that I was just about the perfect level of drunk, wherein my junk still worked, but I was relaxed enough that I could actually get off in something of a normal timeframe. Thinking about Beerslut Girl from the party earlier. Frown. Why am I so wicked??

Normally when we have our little downstairs base rounding sessions, Missy has the presence of mind to keep it down and maybe turn on the TV or something. Tonight was not the case, and so we were going at it pretty loud before we finally noticed that someone was awake and walking around upstairs. We settled as quickly as possible, but I�m positive her mom still knew. Not that it stopped us from starting right up again the second she was back upstairs. Ah, alcohol. Where would our sex lives be without you?

The next day was mostly recovery. Amy�s teacher from, like, birth was there for a minute, but mostly we collapsed in a heap and watched the last season of �Friends� on TBS. Damn you, charming friends! I always want to be too snooty for your antics, but I end up LOLing anyway. A trip to Dairy Queen, of all places. That damn 80�s commercial totally won me over and I got some chicken fingers, but the fucking sauce, man! It was this cup of gravy or some shit! WHAT�S GOING ON?!

I was still fairly exhausted and passed out for a while (missing a thunderstorm and a baseball game, darn it!) before starting my trip home, and my final adventure for the weekend. Most of the drive was fine � there were a lot fewer cars, so my road rage went way down, and I had decent music for once, so the time went by quicker. Anyway, I was somewhere around St. Louis, before or after, I dunno, but a few miles outside of the small town called Alton. Now, I�ve always said, �I know my car, I know my car.� That�s my thing that I say! But usually, even when my gas is at E, I have another 15 miles or so (driving at my speeds, mind you) to get you to the next gas station. So, I�m driving along, about an eighth of a tank listed, which I think it�ll take me all the way through to Illinois, when all of a sudden my car starts sputtering � won�t accelerate anymore. It dies, technically, so neither power brakes or steering are up, and I�m kind of flying blind. So I�m coasting down from like 85, eventually pulling off the road to keep rolling and get as much bang as I can. Finally, I stop, turn the car off and on, and then blast with my metal to the floor. This gets me up to 85 again, but then it promptly dies soon thereafter, and I�m coasting once more. This time, she won�t restart.

I just passed a sign that said I was a mile away from the exit to Alton, so at least it won�t be too bad of a walk. The thing is, I�m right by some river, the Missouri River, the Mississippi, I don�t know what, and there is a huge fucking narrow bridge I am going to have to cross. I doubt they built it with pedestrians in mind. But anyway, I decide we�ll cross that bridge when we get to it (HAHAHA) and start shufflin� down the road, trying not to look like a pud, which I believe is impossible in that situation. �Oh, look at the scruffy young man! That wasn�t his car we saw stranded back there! He�s just walking down the highway alone because he is dark and rebellious!� You forgot handsome, you cuntrag!

So I get about a quarter of a mile, and cars are zooming by, which I don�t really mind (Somehow I am usually more worried in a car on the highway than out of one on the same � this says much for my driving ability) when this guy pulls over in a Cadillac a little ahead of me. I walk up, and oh gosh. It is The Fattest Man in the World come to rescue me! I swear, guys, this fellow was perfectly round, a ball, and fucking dirty. Not like perverted (although that is a likely possibility) but both he and his car interior were just coated in dirt and grime all over. I am trying to use snap judgements to decide if I will survive this encounter, but unfortunately most serial killers don�t have bumper stickers pointing themselves out as such. So we drive and make awkward conversation, and he certainly does not know my name or I his, thank Vishnu, and he drops me off at the Phillips 66 in Alton. He offered me a ride back to my car, but I felt I had tempted fate enough for the day and just thanked him and shook his hand. That�s probably enough jerk-off material for him, right?

Having accidentally completed one of Missy�s lifetime goals, I purchased me up some gas and a 2 gallon tank in which to put it. Then I started the trek back. About halfway up the wrong way on an off-ramp, my dad calls to see how my weekend was. �What are you up to?� �Oh, you know. Carrying 20 pounds of gasoline down highway 70� You?� My mom, the worrier, worried, and I doubt it helped that she could hear the semis and their sonic booms as they flew by. Personally, I was sort of having a riot, and I was all sweaty, and it was getting dark, and my arms were sore, and here was coming the bridge, and yes, it did have a walkway, but it was about as wide as your standard curb, so I would be tightroping my way across it, trying not to get caught up in some wind shear and get sent tumbling over the edge. Luckily, random birds were there to fly in my face if I got too close to their nests. And oh, the shit you find on the side of the road. I mean, I only walked a couple of miles, but there were all sorts of treasures I would loved to have had had I had a backpack (or a Sherpa or a burly Scotsman, etc.) Bungee cords and a single 15 pound free weight and some granola bars and an absolutely disturbing number of discarded liquor bottles. I made it back to my car right as it got dark (and hooray that my hazards had drained the battery while I was gone� although the irony would have been pretty sweet) and pretty much spilled gas over everything in a ten foot radius, thus reaffirming my previous no smoking policy (originally established in memory of Jackson, who stars in a little play in my mind called, �Jackson Smokes a Cigarette and Immediately Vomits at High Speeds Out of the Window of My Car�). It is rather unnerving that it smells like a Texaco every time I get in my ride, but we�ll just pretend the experience was life affirming.

Despite the setback, I made very good time. Thanks, speeding!!

I arrived home and recounted my tales. And the drinking began! Allison Helm is all moved in and came back later from her date with Weird Sports Guy from Rentertainment Who Clearly Does Not Fit in With the Rest of the Jetset There At That Particular Establishment. As you might expect, he likes sports. A lot. Allison got trashed fairly quick and kept telling me that she was not actually interested in him. It�s going to be awesome when Missy shows up in like a day! I just recently informed her of our temporary roommate, and she has been sick ever since. I dunno, man � I don�t think I like jealous girls. Like, I guess I should be flattered that she�s all upset, even if she does trust me, but it�s a very icky thing to see on a person. My hope is secretly that this will make all things better, that Allison will not try to mount me when she is drunk and that Missy will not worry about me being friends with Allison. I would like a magic sword while I am at it. Good thing I stayed up �til 5 on the day I had to wake up extra early. Damn it all if that job doesn�t give me more stress than anything. I mean, I can handle it, even if there is pretty much someone on my ass every minute, but thinking about handling it makes me sick to my stomach. Knots form and shit.