Well, my brother moved to Minnesota, and we drove there in a truck. The end.
Yeah, right, stuff happened, and you're gonna read about that stuff right now, so here's some stuff that happened, okay...
So I went to work on Wednesday with a headache. It was funny, though, cuz it felt like someone was driving a railroad spike through my head, with intermittent pauses to allow trains to drive over it. I laughed heartily at this humorous turn of events and promptly drove my head through my computer monitor, but by the time someone came by to check on the noise, I was already in my car on the way home. For some reason leaving sparking wreckage behind did nothing to heal my head, so I went to Racetrac gas station/fine dining establishment, got a 1600 ounce cherry coke from the two mile selection of fountain drinks, then went down to the CVS parking lot to buy a bag of crack. Only one statement in the previous sentence wasn't a slight exaggeration, and that was that I went to CVS to buy some crack. Actually, I did that the day before, but in the interest of creating a reality show like artifice of real life following a clear narrative, let's say that I stopped by CVS on the way home for a bag of crack. I devoured the white stuff off my fingers, but the full bag was more than even I can handle.
Oh, by the way, in this case, crack means Hershey's Cookies n' Cream Drops.
These were known as Cookies and Cream balls/bites in the late 90's/early 00's, until Hershey discontinued them due to their addictive properties. I don't know why they brought them back, and flattening them and making them even glossier has only hightened their considerable powers. My cousin, The Rabbit, and I used to sit in the car eating bags of those things and neglecting our school, friends, and families. It is possible that without their discontinuation, I would have dropped out of college, not married, and never had a child. Speaking of child:
My son was so overjoyed at my departure that he cried the entire time I packed my stuff into the Penske truck. This gives mixed feelings. The first is:
A. Aw, man, I feel like crap leaving my kid here without me for five days. I love that little guy, and it kills me to see him sad like this. But the second is,
B. Woah, awesome, my kid actually likes me!
Since I am incredibly shallow, of couse I leaned toward the second one.
I found a surprise immediately upon entering the truck:
Yes, this stupid dog. I'm just kidding, the dog is okay, I guess. He stayed on the floor and he didn't poo in my shoe, so I guess he is alright. Also, he didn't bite me, but you don't expect a dog called "Goofus," to take a chunk out of your flesh, even if he weighs as much as a junior college linebacker. I'm not even lying, my brother really named his dog Goofus. Goofus, the cowardly hound.
Well, we left, because St. Paul, Minnesota is 1,211 miles from Baton Rouge*.
*This is the only real statistic in this Travelogue*
To counter that, here is a problem for all you math freaks. Going 0 miles per hour from Baton Rouge to St. Paul, a distance of 1,211 miles, the journey would take approximately 0 hours. That's because, as everyone knows, the sum of every math problem involving zero is zero. Because my brother and I knew we wouldn't see each other again for a while, we decided to go for a speed of about 65 mph, so that we would have time to talk. Awesome.
So, Goofus and my brother and I hit the interstate and made for the glorious HWY 61. Then we talked about awesome guy things like Zelda, or will there ever be a boy born who can swim faster than a shark? Finally, we made it to the beautiful town of Tallulah, Louisiana, where the Popeye's manager wears a stopwatch around her neck to time her employees. Also, we gassed up the truck, which you can tell from this picture is so large, simply driving the length of the truck nearly got us through the entire state.
We left Tallulah, powered through the beautiful northern portion of our state (LA for life, dawg!), and entered into the nightly wonders of Arkansas. A few cities in, we visited a local restaurant called Sonic, and I ordered a regional dish known as a "hot dog." Swiftly re-entering the truck so that Goofus would not suffocate or get lonely and start writing horrible dog-poetry, we got back on the road.
Nearing our first-day's destination, we began to grow tired. I nibbled some crack, but by that point, my tolerance level was so high, it did nothing. After passing several wandering deer that were just asking us to swerve over the shoulder and put them out of their doe-y misery, and also have us die in a tree-collision fireball that would surely make our corpses unrecognizable, we decided there was only one way to survive the last leg of that day's journey: punk it out.
In went the Slick Shoes CD. Out went our tiredness. The Arkansas interstate begged for mercy, so we gave quarter and stopped at my brother's in-laws' house in Russellville. Man, what a beautiful town, even at night. Also, my brother's in-laws are so nice, sometimes I think they are putting one over on me, but they aren't, they are really that nice. Also, every time I type brother's in-laws, I want to type brother-in-law's in-law's, and I don't know why.
I went down to a bedroom in their basement, which is setup more nicely than most people's living rooms. It is an older home, and I am pretty sure the basement is haunted.
That night I had a long dreamless sleep, when suddenly my wife entered the room, and I reached out to touch her, but the moment I made contact I woke up in the darkness, alone.