Guys? That never works. Never. No, seriously. That Nizzle-Evazizzle works. That works less than "Hey baby, do you have a mirror in your pocket? Cause I can see myself in your pants?" I know. It is hard to believe that something could work less than that, but it's a proven fact. The "Joey" as it is known, is statistically proven to work only 2 per cent of the time. And there's a 1 per cent abberation. And you know math was never my strong suit, so....you do it.
Pick-up lines, in general are pretty damn cheesy. And they are widely reknowned for being so. Why then, do we continue to use them? I mean, is it so hard to walk up to a gal, order a sasparilla and say "Howdy. What's your name?" You'll know pretty soon if she wants to continue jarring with you or if she finds you as disgusting as...what's disgusting? Hmmm...the ring in the bathtub, that's pretty gross, eh? Or a big, ol' wad of phlegm? Yeah. Guh-ross!
So, here's to hoping that you have some brain function, a not unattractive body, and something to cure that mad halitosis. And a better pick-up line than TV's Friends loveable lunkhead, Joey Tribbiani.
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So I'm in the big city. It ain't so big. It ain't so bad. As far as I can tell, the only adjustment I would have to make, would be to incorporate the phrase "mother-fucking cocksucker!" into my regular driving vocabulary. (And I had planned to do that anyway.) Seriously, lane-hopper in the purple Neon, I'm talking to you, beeyotch! Who the hell do you think you are? That was MY lane? I have my oil drippings all over this lane! I mark my territory, friend! Who are you to just cut into MY lane? You think that's going to save you time? Fuck that noise! Why don't you just get on the Deerfoot like all the other assholes? Who drives a purple neon anyway?
And that's just in the city.
No, actually, the drive to Calgary was pretty uneventful. It was mostly a two-lane all the way, and the speed limit on the trans-Canada has been upped to 110 kmph. So I pretty much cruised along at 105, singing along to the Barenaked Ladies on my discman and having a grand old time.
The drive to Calgary from where I live is about eight hours. Normally. When you don't drive a hell-beast on wheels. This car is like, the fucking anti-christ, man. More than once on the way up, I shouted "The power of Christ compells you!" to no avail. So this is some bad, bad, automotive mojo. I used five quarts of oil getting here. Wooo! Let's hear it for me! Single-handedly supporting the oil-producing companies since 2002.
Would it be so much to ask for me to have a car that would not break down or ruin a trip for me? I thought not. There's no air conditioning in my car, and Wednesday was the hottest day ever. EVER! Future folk will marvel when they pull up the time capsule for July 23, 2003 and see that poor little me suffered an ungodly ten hour drive, by strategic ponytail deployment, water consumption, and shirt removal. I highly recommend bra driving, be sure to apply lots of sunscreen. I also made frequent stops along the way. Stops that were auspiciously intended to cool me down. I mean, can I help it that the only place in south-central Saskatchewan with air conditioning was a freaking bird sanctuary? No. So I went in while the car cooled down. I had no intention of staying for as long as I did. I was thinking, ten minutes, at most. However, I made the mistake of telling the woman who was in charge that I was a reporter, and that I had once written a story about piping plovers, an endangered shore bird which makes its home for part of the year at this sanctuary/haven place. So she insisted on a tour. Uh....okay. The thing is, birds creep me out. They're just...weird. They have little beady bird eyes, and sharp beaks and fluttery, creepy wings and germy little feet and....bluh. And they always fly at my car, making me flinch cause who knows when they could slam into your window at top velocity and take your eye out with a sharp beak? So her little tour mostly made me want to gag. But I have fond memories of that story about plovers (I wanted to call it "Plovers in a Dangerous Time" but I got shot down) so I stuck it out. Anyway, I finally escaped, eyes relatively un-pecked out.
When I got back on the road, I turned the air conditioner on, only to recieve a snoot full of hot, stanky air. The stankiest air that ever stanked. Stank-fest 2003. Stank-O-Rama. The bride of Stankenstein....hmmm...hard to top that one. So I shut that off and went for the analog version of air-conditioning, also known as rolling your windows down. But when it's hotter outside than it is inside, you end up with a sort of heat catch-22. Like, what's hotter? The inside of a locked, unventilated black car in scorching desert-like heat? Or a sweltering mine shaft with dwarf-like proportions in the dead of summer? Or the inside of a cat. I think that would be pretty damn hot. Apparently, the oil in my car felt that it was just too hot, so it tried to escape. Five quarts of oil! !!! I still can't quite comprehend that. Gripper's dad looked at it for me. He thinks front seal of crank-shaft. Awww. And I was rooting for loose oil filter! Nuts!
I'm gonna buy a couple big tubs of oil from Canadian Tire before I go home. So that I can stop periodically to check it and fill it up if need be. The thing is, need shouldn't be! This motherfucking car just went through its second provincial test! Why didn't anybody go "Hey, you sure got a lot o' oil under your car. Knowhattimean? I mean, that's a lot o' oil right there, that is. That's what I mean." Looooong pause. "Yep." That would have been nice. Oh well. One more thing for my dad to fix when I get home.
Whatever. As long as I get to Medicine Hat okay. I have an interview with the managing editor of the paper there. He said my resume was "impressive." I am crossing every appendage that might ever conceivably be crossed. He sounded eager to meet me. Not as eager as I am to meet him, let me tell you. This period of wanton joblessness must end. I can't tell you how badly it must end. My parents have been great (despite my bitching) but they're starting to get that "Seriously, when is she going to leave?" look in their eyes. I think I've had that look in my eyes ever since I've been back, so I can't really blame them. Seven months is an extra-long time to be unemployed.
Banff tomorrow. Possible snowboarding, definite Lush shopping for expensive soaps. I love them all like my little, expensive children. I can't help it. They need good homes!
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