01/17/2006 - 2:14 a.m. | got it goin' on... like donkey kong.

I walked in about five minutes ago, and the house is completely dark and deserted. Not exactly the warm homecoming I'd expected after my marathon driving session. Checking Shelly's IMs, I was mere seconds away from tearing over to Taffies before I spoke to Missy and realized that she and Spritz had left for some sort of interview.

Wait - some sort of ... noise just issued from ... somewhere. We can assume it is Gautum sleeping with the door open, but just in case gun and machete will be under my pillow. HEAR THAT, FELONS?!

There are certain advantages and certain disadvantages to departing on an 8 hour journey at 6:30 at night (I did this both ways). The roads are actually less crowded, so between that and my flagrant speeding, I probably shaved off a half hour each way.* On the downside we have the insanity, although they could certainly be attributed in part to my decision to shock my system back to life with pop culture and listen to nothing but the radio both ways. 16 hours of Constant Scanning. I just wanted to get in touch with the real world after that VH1 special I watched. Apparently that VH1 special was culture, however, and my journey only succeeded in looping it a dozen or so times. Without even realizing it, I began to keep track of what played, making all these little mental charts in my head about themes and repeated artists and the most popular tracks. Conclusions: 1) Ashlee Simpson is a robot from the future designed to give us the most horribly grating, destructive songs of all time. L.O. L.O. L.O. V.E. What master of sadism was like, "Yessss! Let's spread this everywhere!" 2) Even besides the obvious, there is some sort of conspiracy of coincidence that I do not fully understand. How can I go one night without hearing "Free Ride" and then hear it four times the next night? Someone is orchestrating all of this. 3) The most played song overall was Tim McGraw's "I Like It, I Love It." By far. By far. Like, double the second place contender (Eminem's new song). Nevermind that it is from 1995 - this shit was hammered in by more different stations (concurrently in some cases!) than any top 40 hit I've ever heard of. At first it would sneak up on me - "Oh, shit! There it is again!" - but then I started to catch characteristic guitar riffs and lyrics and lord, how many times did I miss? There is something the matter with you, America. You are sick, sick.

*Although the semis were pulling this awful new trick on me this time around. Did it two or three times. One semi would be passing another, which is always awful, but I would get behind it and prepare to take my licks. Well, the passing truck somehow wasn't passing at all, although I don't know how it got itself into that position before deciding it would not, in fact, be passing, but all of a sudden, it would just stop going forward. And the trucks being passed weren't going to speed up or slow down, of course, so traffic would come to a standstill until retard passing truck finally decided to slow down and get to the end of the line of semis again. One time the passer had to go back three trucks before it could get back into the right lane. Some sword waving was done then and there, I can tell you.

Anyway, as a strategy, this radio scanning worked really well, keeping me awake and energized and the trip moving fast, because I always had to be constantly doing something (evaluation, making graphs in my head, swearing excessively). In between cities, I'd most often stick to the top 40 hits like a base during tag; I didn't like these songs particularly, but they would kill another couple of minutes until I could start a new scan rotation going. And when I did stumble onto something interesting, it would definitely be nothing I'd have listened to of my own volition, so it had the element of surprise to keep the singing fresh. "Dancing With Myself?" Ah yes, perfect!

Anyway, as I said, madness was a side effect of this process. For instance, I spoke out loud to myself, in all seriousness, "You know... a truck is like a box on wheels..." all philosophical-like, as though no one had thought of that before. THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT OF TRUCKS! And then that James Blunt song came on for the tenth time, and I started thinking of Arthur (Dudley Moore) singing, and I almost drove off the road I started laughing so hard. (Also all the monsooning throughout Illinois. I am beginning to sense a pattern there) Thirdly, I had brought these bottles of sasparilla that Smacko had coerced me into buying the other night, but I'd forgotten they weren't the twist off type and so was essentially fucked. OR WAS I? I grabbed the machete from its sheath (scabbard?) and started hacking away the bottle (and my arm) while trying to haphazardly steer at the same time. It worked, though! In a manner of speaking. I lopped the entire top of the bottle off, leaving a big old shard I had to shove in my face everyone time I wanted a drink. Needless to say, my mouth is filled with wounds.

I needed to stop for gas, and even though every gas station I'd passed charged about $2.18, the one I actually stopped at charged like 2.45. As you can imagine, my rage knew no bounds. I drove on to the next place, but not before pissing on their sinks and soap dispensor (Thanks, Smacko!) I also deposited a Filet-O-Fish box with some turds in it into the condom machine. They looked like brown green beans (the turds, I mean). Do not incur my wrath.

It is the first day of class tomorrow, and though I do not start until 11, I feel sort of guilty that everyone else is all resting up for the big day ("Here is your syllabus!" "Thank you."), so you will just have to wait on the expected angst any occasion involving Missy is sure to involve.

Post script: Today's title comes from Trace Adkins' "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk," another frequent visitor from the country stations along our journey. I can't even really express the type of anger this song (and this one line in particular) produces in me. To adequately show it, I would have to take a spoon, dig out both of your eyes, and as you screamed and blood sprayed out at firehose velocity (The eyes do that, I believe), I would have to keep punching you in your now-empty eye sockets, making them bigger and bigger as the blood soaked us both. Trace Adkins, I hope you have to watch your children die. Shut my mouth, slap your grandma.