Sunday's drive up your blog… with Ramblin' Rooster

The official blog of RoosterEgg.com

Posts Tagged ‘road trip

After the Super 8

with 13 comments

I don’t know if you read Sickdays by Alantru, but it’s fantabulous. His latest blog is the hilarious conclusion to a not-so-wonderful sales, road trip. Check it out: http://sickdays.wordpress.com/2009/05/21/omaha-the-aftermath

 

Anyway, the last line says, “Once you’ve been thrown out of a Super 8, there’s really nowhere left to go.” Normally I would never argue with Alan, but I couldn’t resist. Without further ado, I give you:

 

Where to Go After Super 8:

 

– Motel 6

– Denny’s

-Wal-Mart for a fake mustache to return to the Super 8 as Bob Carpuss

-Your parents house to ask for a “do over”

-Your dealer’s trailer to “reload the meth pouch”

-Downtown to panhandle, you already look broke and broken

-Strip Club

-Across the street for last call

-Mailbox baseball

-24 hour supermarket for improvised Olympics

-Under the bridge for some “Space Truckin”

-The red light district to see if Shantel is still working

-Down by the Missouri River to bury Clark’s mysteriously dead body

-DisneyLand

-To a very dark place inside your mind that takes years to come out of

-Off the deep end

-On a drinking binge that leaves everyone satisfied with their question of “Can a liver really explode”

-Running naked through the streets

-Hell

-Jail

-Into the arms, (or front legs) of the first sheep you see

-Back to the drawing board

-Where the road meets the horizon

-To La-La Land

-Your quite place

-Your safe place

-Into vivid fantasies of torture and dismemberment

-On the internet to read Sickdays

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Advertisements

Written by Ramblin' Rooster

May 22, 2009 at 2:17 am

Mysterious Highway Skid Marks

leave a comment »

Driving down the highway can be tiring. It doesn’t make sense, since you’re not really doing anything except sitting, but regardless, long trips seem to take it out of you. I’ve always had a theory that the reason for this is speed. You may not be moving your limbs using your muscles, but your body is traveling at the rate of speed equal to the car’s speed. Now unless you have been bitten by a radioactive, moon cricket and have been blessed with super powers, you’re probably not use to traveling at 60 to 80 miles an hour unassisted.

 

The other thing about traveling is that it’s rather boring or certainly can be. That’s why there’s all those great, yet mind boggling, desperate games like Alphabet, I-Spy, 20 Questions and countless others that were created by those that would rather spend 87 miles looking for an “X” than just riding in a car. If you happen to be “of the unfortunate nature” and find yourself traveling alone, it’s almost impossible not to fall inside you’re brain.

 

Before you know it, you’ve relived every fight, conversation, missed opportunity and pleasurable experience you’ve ever had. Once that’s over you begin to slip into the zombie-esque state of staring at things with blank face and empty mind.

 

You start to notice roadkill. Out of the corner of your eye you see a hawk take flight. Across the field you observe an abandon, near reclaimed by the earth farm house. You think to yourself, “I wonder who lived there. I bet they’re all dead.” Passing an out of business gas station you tease yourself about running out of gas, but you still check your gauge. Twice. It’s then that you see the first one.

 

It’s just a slight stain of black, somewhat faded, but noticeable to your now awaken road eyes. A few more miles whiz by and you pick up on two solid burn marks. As you continue down the road, more and more skid marks run across the road. This way and that way, to and fro, on the road, off the road, into oncoming traffic, and down into the ditch. What the hell happened on this road? What kind of carnage took place? Have you found the lost shooting location of Mad Max/Road Warrior? Nah couldn’t be. That was filmed in Australia. Holy smokes, did I drive all the way to Australia?

 

“Two days ago I saw a truck that could haul that tanker. You wanna get outta here? You talk to me.”

 

Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Written by Ramblin' Rooster

March 20, 2009 at 3:54 am

Why Can’t I Punch Ladies?

leave a comment »

Nothing says, “Equal Rights” like a fat lip. I’m just kidding of course, calm down, but you can’t tell me there isn’t a couple of women out there that are long overdue for a good ass kickin’. Truth is, the woman with whom I got into a confrontation with last night, that brought this on, quite possibly could’ve handed me my ass. It would have been a pretty good fight.

You’re to the point of wanting to know what happened, huh? Let me satisfy your curiosity.

Last night I was taking my daughter home. She lives four hours from where I live. Along the way our bladders became full and our stomachs became empty. Solution? Convenience store dinner. 9:08 P.M. we stopped at one of those “special” gas stations, the kind you can only find on two lane highways. The kind that when you pull up, the first thought that goes through your mind is, “I wonder how many people have been raped and murdered here?”, or “Didn’t they film that slasher movie here, that was based on a true story?” The daughter and I go in.

I go to the men’s room, I think that she’s going to the ladies room. When I come out, she’s still standing there. I asked what’s going on and she tells me it’s occupied. I don’t think much of it, so I wander around a little bit looking for some tasty snacks. As I’m browsing the outdated, over priced, powder flavored, fried potato section, I keep noticing women walking in and out of the bathroom, (at least three). So I go over to investigate.

“What’s the deal?” I ask my daughter, (who’s ten by the way). “I don’t know” was pretty much here response. Basically these ladies were just cutting right in front of my daughter to go to the bathroom. I guess in there defense, my daughter isn’t very assertive, but still. So I tell her that I’ll watch the door, hold her place in line while she goes and picks out her FDA approved, 100% nutritious, dinner in a bag. Not long after, a lady comes walking in, with eyes bloodshot like I’ve never seen before. They were so bloodshot, I’m surprised she was conscious, because it must have taken half of her body’s supply to fill them eyeballs up as full as they were. I’m standing in front of the door mind you and right off the bat she brings the attitude. Here’s how the conversation goes down:

“Excuuuuse me!”

“Yeah, it’s a one person bathroom and someone is in it. I holding my daughter’s place in line.”

“You’re waiting for the bathroom?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s someone in there?”

“Yeah. I’m holding my daughter’s place in line.”

“Oh, OK.”

Not a second after the conversation wraps up, the lock pops as the person inside starts to open the door. I turn my back slightly to Ms. Blood Eyes and tell my daughter the bathroom is free, (she’s like six feet away). As I turn back, Ms. Blood Eyes is making an attempt for the bathroom. I say “Hey” to her three times, each one increasing in volume and intensity as she’s ignoring me. The last one is rather loud and somewhat forceful, a dull shout I suppose. Ms. Blood Eyes spins around as screams, “Hey! Why you all up on me! Why are you accosting me?” “Give me a break. I told you my daughter was next, that I was holding her place. She’s right here and it’s her turn.” I replied. My poor daughter is kind of freaked out, (’cause believe it or not I don’t normally do things like this. I’m usually the kind who doesn’t say anything and bottles it up and let’s it eat at my stomach lining). I tell her it’s OK, to go ahead. She does. Ms. Blood Eyes curses me under her breath and spends a few moments in “I can’t believe this is really happening-ville”, (a lot of gasping, harrumphs and angry sighing).

After my daughter comes back out, we grab a couple of drinks, head to the cashier to get out of here. At the same time, Ms. Blood Eyes boyfriend comes in. At the counter, the guy in front of me is writing a check while simultaneously playing and buying “lotto” scratch tickets. He’s apparently negotiating rent, because he shows no sign of ever leaving. Meanwhile, Ms. Blood Eyes has finished snortin’ coke in the bathroom and is now standing in the middle of the store, telling her boyfriend, in a non-library voice, how some a$$hole was threatening her and was crazy and out of control, out of line, and out of his mind.

All I could think of was, “Please don’t let the boyfriend come over here. Please don’t let my daughter watch her dad fight a stranger at a gas station. Please don’t have the cops call her mom asking to come pick up her daughter at the station.”

Well, you’re gonna hate me, but that’s really it for the story. I put my crazy-don’t-even-think-about-fighting-me-I’ve-done-time-in-prison-face on, the boyfriend decided he didn’t want to fight for the honor of his girlfriend, (I’m guessing because he figured what’s the point, she won’t remember in the morning anyway) and the guy playing the lottery died of old age. We paid, we walked out, we drove off.

From now on, ziplocks of pretzels accompany me on all road trips.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Written by Ramblin' Rooster

October 7, 2008 at 4:25 am