The price of gas is killing me… Sometimes I have to leave my lead weight collection at home. The beached whale on my roof is going to have to go next. I guess that’s what you get for parking below the tide line. All I wanted was a hot dog, but I got sidetracked by the inevitable food poisoning from “Frothnar’s Authentic Viking Hot Dogs”. That’s right, authentic like from back in the middle ages. I’ve never been a fan of reproductions. So, anyway, yeah, I had a few-day sidetrack in the hospital during which time I actually gained the capacity to blow bubbles with my dick. Fucking sweet, right? I thought so. No, not just like, one bubble per second, I mean a goddamn stream of the things! It’s a great party trick, especially when you’re a clown that specializes in children’s birthdays. ‘Course, now I can’t actually legally be within thirty feet of a child anywhere on this continent, but I always thought it’d be a good gimmick.
So anyway, my roof whale is sort of embarrassing, ’cause it’s starting to rot, and bits of it keep falling off on the freeway. It makes people upset, but when they get upset I just whip it out and give ‘em the bubble, if you know what I mean. You should see the looks on their faces. It helps that I don’t have a driver door… that one went missing when I saw a motorcyclist splitting lanes. I told the police I just opened the door to spit! I don’t even chew! Suckers. It was worth trading a door. Oh, I know it’s legal here in California, but it still pisses me off.
Sometimes I get people who whine about the 30″ television I put on my dashboard, but one thing I’ve noticed is that driving is fucking boring, and I’d much prefer to be able to watch reruns of King of the Hill while I’m doing it. If I really need to see anything (yeah, right), I can just lean out my door.
Other times I like to try to play the banjo while I’m driving around. Sometimes I get so into my banjo playing that I end up in ditches, yards, supermarkets, but I’m incurable. You just can’t silence vision. You also can’t make a better metaphor than that one. Yeah, go ahead, try. Scared? I thought so.
So, I love sharing my story with hitchhikers… do you still need a ride to Glendale?