Sasquatch! Music Festival, Part V: I Can’t Drive 35

Part I   Part  II   Part III   Part IV

When I awoke Monday morning, I knew one thing for certain.

I was dying.

Now, I’m not technically a doctor, as I’m currently just under 254 credits shy of my medical degree. But I’ve seen enough pharmaceutical advertisements on television, and I am proficient enough with Google, to be able to diagnose and treat the vast majority of medical maladies a person could  encounter in a first world country.

I was sweating but had the chills. My throat was sore and my tummy ached. As a bonus, I had a massive erection that lasted well past the recommended four-hour window for safe, effective lovemaking. Alright, we could argue the clinical definitions of “massive” and “effective” all day long, but this tale needs a telling, so perhaps we could discuss it later. Possibly over dinner and drinks? We’ll talk after.

My point is, I wasn’t feeling well at all. I was functioning on roughly twelve hours of sleep over the last four days. My waking hours were consumed with driving unknown territories, walking uphill both ways, being wicked awesome, and rocking out with my cock in. Because I’m wicked awesome, but I’m also a classy gentleman, and that is how we rock. Take that, Red Hot Chili Peppers!

Does rocking out with your cock in a sock, count as rocking out with your cock out?

I contend that it does, and I contend that the laws of this great country will uphold that supposition! Henceforth I intend to prove it to you beyond a reasonable doubt, ladies and gentleman of the jury, by the time these proceedings have commenced, forthwith.

Excuse me? What’s that you say? This isn’t a courthouse, I’m not a lawyer, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers aren’t even on trial here?

Tell it to the judge, fucker.

I’ve barely started this post and I’ve already made multiple references to male penises, and called you a fucker. This might get rough, is apparently what she said.

Connie Bigs looked at me and asked, “Are you alright?”, because that’s what she’s legally obligated to do, as we are blissfully betrothed. I replied that I had definitely felt better in my lifetime. She suggested that I go back to bed for a while, and see if that helped. I took a concoction of over the counter sinus medicine, some Advil. and maybe a roofie. I’m not sure, but Connie crushed up a pill and put it in my applesauce when she thought I wasn’t looking. But I was looking, as I have already informed you about my 24/7/365 vigilant watch for terrorists and their ilk.

Now, I’m obviously not saying that my beautiful baby lady is a terrorist. I was just reminding you that my eyes are always open in my never-ending surveillance for evil-doers. Except when I’m sleeping, blinking, sneezing or playing Hide and Seek, naturally. I’m not a robot.

That would be pretty sweet though. Being a robot? Right? I think it would be pretty sweet. indeed. Unless it’s raining out. Because then you couldn’t go outside and play with the human boys, because of your tendency to rust. So you’d just be all sad, watching them play from your window with your exceptional robot vision. Listening to their whimsical laughter and vulgar Yo’ Momma jokes, with your bionic boy ears.

Plus, I’m sure you’d be expected to clean the house while you’re there, since your essentially a vacuum. So on rainy days it would probably really suck to be a robot boy. But on a nice summer day? Say 75-80 degrees, mostly sunny ? Look out! You would be a Bionic God King Boy to those regular human being boys. You would definitely kick their asses in Hide and Seek, because of your built-in GPS, as well as your capabilities in establishing search grid patterns.

Anyways, my point is that Connie Bigslob is not a terrorist, and I will swear to that, under oath, in a court of law. Once I get those practicing law without a license charges dismissed. I can’t believe you fuckers really told it to the judge! It was a figure of speech. You guys!

See, I wouldn’t marry a terrorist. I love America too much to marry a terrorist.

I might date a terrorist. If I wasn’t already happily married to Connie, of course. That goes without saying. She’d have to be really pretty, though. With a nice smile, and a good sense of humor. And she can’t have fucked up bangs. Fucked up bangs are a deal breaker for me, terrorist or not.

I’d keep it simple though. Maybe we’d start off with a couple of day dates, like lunch at Au Bon Pain and a matinée showing of the latest Tyler Perry blockbuster. Something classy, yet subtle, like that. Perhaps we’d go on a group shopping excursion to the Wrentham Premium Outlets. Maybe a weekend down Cape Cod with friends or something. I don’t know. It depends on if there’s any good deals on Groupon that week. There would be some heavy petting, obviously. Nothing wrong with a little heavy petting, am I right? But I wouldn’t let the relationship get serious. There’s no way I’d buy her a ring. She’d probably just blow it up someday, anyway.

I took the roofie that CBS slipped me without commenting on her treacherous betrayal, like a big boy, and managed to fall into a fitful two-hour slumber. I remember having this really scary dream about marrying a terrorist with fucked up bangs who didn’t get the joke. Suddenly Connie shook me awake.

“Your phone just went off”, she said. It was a text from the aforementioned David, from Live Nation. It said to make sure that we were on site no later than two o’clock for the meet and greet. It was currently a tad past noon, and it was about a 60 to 75 minute drive. I splashed some water on my face, threw on some pants like any non sex-offender would do, and we headed out into…..rain? What the fuck?

The weekend had been beautiful. It was sunny for the first three days, but it was a dreary on Monday. Oh, well. As Meatloaf famously said, three outta four ain’t bad. I was feeling a little better than I had been a few hours before. Still achy, but the Sudafed/Advil/Roofie combo had my throat feeling a little better. Sing-a-longs take a toll on a forty-two year old boy in a big way. Although it was probably the screaming more than the singing. Sometimes I can’t control myself. What can I say? I’m like a twelve-year-old Belieber under the right set of circumstances.

We stopped at a truck stop on the way to the Gorge to get some coffee, because they don’t have a Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner out there. Or anywhere for that matter. As we left the truck stop, we got stuck behind the pickup truck from Sanford & Son doing 35 MPH on a 60 MPH stretch of road. Which is pretty much all of it. There was a 3/4 mile section of road through a trailer park town that was 35 MPH and the other 49 and 1/4 miles were 60 MPH.

I’m sorry that I’m too lazy to translate that into Kilometers for my huge intercontinental following. But you can just ask Jeeves to figure it out for you. Seriously, he’s not busy, and I’m sure he would love to pitch in and help out. He misses you. I think some human contact might do him some good at this point, as well.

Fearing that we would be late for our big meeting with The Lumineers, I started getting restless. Connie Bigs told me , “Relax honey, it will be fine. But the Boston driver in me wouldn’t take “relax honey, it will be fine” for an answer. I decided that I needed to pass Lamont so we could get on with our lives.

We were on a good five-mile stretch of straight road, one lane each way. I couldn’t see around Sanford’s truck to see if the road was clear. This was mostly due a combination of both record high copper prices as well as record high foreclosures of homes containing copper to steal.

We’re number one!

When I finally saw it was clear, I made my move. I signaled with my left blinker that I was intending to pass, as anyone who aced their driving test on the first try even though they didn’t bring their A game that day would do.

Remember when I said that it was a straight stretch of road a couple of run-on sentences ago? Well it was. But it was that kind of straight road that also went up and down. You know the ones I’m taking about? I thinks they call them hills. Anyways, they make a straight road look straighter and emptier than it may actually be. As I was passing Old Man Sanford on the left, I noticed what looked strangely like an automobile of sorts heading right in my direction. On my side of the road!

Okay, his side of the road, but if you saw it from where I saw it, or if you saw it in Europe, you’d understand.

I punched the gas and I feel like Sanford may have punched the gas too. For a couple of seconds I felt like maybe this was not my best decision in my long history of not making my best decisions. I couldn’t fall back behind Redd Foxx, because there were cars behind me, so I went for it. As I was pulling back in front of the junkmobile, the car that was heading my way had to pull to the shoulder of the road. We were a good football field or so away from each other at that point, but it was still scary as shit. I spent the rest of the drive, and day, effusively apologizing to Connie Bigs. As I shall continue to do for the rest of my life.

Me: “I’m really sorry that I almost just killed us with my childlike enthusiasm, Dear. That was fucking stupid.”

CBS: “Yeah, that was pretty fucking stupid, Bill.”

Me: “Definitely not my best decision in a long history of not making my best decisions. Hahaha.”

CBS: “That’s not funny.”

Me: “That’s just because of the horrifying context in which you first heard it. I think, given time for reflection, as well as the absence of your impending demise, that it will be a pretty funny line, and I will use it someday to great fanfare.”

CBS: “Good luck with that. Please don’t almost kill us anymore?”

Me: “Agreed, my love. Agreed.”

CBS: “Pinky Swear?”

Me: “I’ll do you one better. Let’s Thelma and Louise this bitch!”

Up Next, Part V: Episode II: Can I Ride Your Magic Bus?