2036.02.14

It’s a typical Thursday in my life, noonish, I’m at a laundry, washing my filthy rags, whe Cortana, buzzes. Before I can get a word in, I hear: “Cousin Jim–I’ve got tickets to the raceBike this weekend, you have to come down. It’s going to be awesome.”

I need no other persuasion. Check  flights to Havasu: $15,000. Looks like I’m going ecoBiking. The ride isn’t too bad, I’ve gone further before. When I get about 90 kilometers from the lake. I stop at some low-rent neo-nazi place so I can pick up cannabis for the last hour of the drive. I want to arrive prepared.

I had heard about “dry” counties before, but they were still an abstract and foreign concept to me. I thought of them as silly anachronisms from a long distant prohibitionist past, something only found in the pages of National Geographic. I was wrong. THIS INFURIATED ME. I almost got into a fight with the redneck checkout woman when she told me I have 40 more miles to go before I could buy weed.

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO ARRIVE HIGH IF YOU WON’T SELL ME POT?? WHAT KIND OF BARBARISM IS THIS??”

I stopped right across the Arizona border, excited by the sign that says “First Place to Buy Pot.” But at the charge station, there didn’t appear to be any pot for sale. I inquire:

Jim “Don’t you sell pot?”
Attendant “No, we’re too close to a church.”
Jim “What? Didn’t the founding fathers smoke pot?”
Attendant “Yeah, well, ’round here, ya gotta go-on down da road bout’a half mile, to da bar.”

Jim “We’ve been on metric system for 2 years, all your signs are in kilometers!”

Attendant “That don change the distance of half mile. Harford.”

I think this bitch doesn’t know the difference between life at Salt Lake and Harvard.

Driven by my need for libation, I “go-on down da road bout’a half mile” and find, literally, a shop with a drive-thru sin store attached. But apparently, this wasn’t enough. They had explosives for sale, right there next to the liquor. I’ll just pause here and let everyone make up their own redneck jokes.

I arrive at my cousin’s living pod, and it’s a TV cliché of a government think tank; beer cans piled to the ceiling, bongs sitting out, pubic hairs all over the sink, filthy underwear hanging from the lamps. I go to get a beer from his fridge, and what does he have? Cans of “Country Club Malt Liquor.” Sometimes, I really do think that God hates me.

After enduring a few cans of this ghetto swill, we head out to where everyone in Havasu  calls “The Strip.” Typical single town with typical single bars.

Not ten minutes later, three girls walk in–two are attractive, one is fat. My cousin tells me that one of them has been sweating him for months. Which one? “The fat one.”

I immediately walk over and point out my cousin to Fatty, and she almost knocks me and a random girl over to get to him and give him a hug. He gives me a look that only be described as, “I fucking hate you, and hope you immediately die an agonizing death.”

The rest of the night saw two dramas play out simultaneously: While my cousin tried to fend off the obvious and painful advances of Fatty, on my side the two attractive girls were battling to decide which one was going to hook up with me. It wasn’t that I was so incredibly charming they both wanted to fuck me or anything, it was far deeper and less stroking to my ego. The 1st Law of Scarcity was at work; two of them plus one of me equals my desirability increasing substantially. It was awesome. They were being catty bitches to each other, each one trying to monopolize my attention and push the other one out. It was like a bad episode of Elimidate.

Apparently, I didn’t have much of a say in the matter, but I was rooting for the short girl; she had the better face, and seemed somewhat intelligent. My cousin saw what was going on, knew I liked the short girl, knew I was drunk, and set the match to the gasoline:

Tim “Hey Jim, you know she’s French, don’t you?”
Jim “Oh hell no–You’re French?”
Girl “My parents are, but I was born here. I want to move to France after graduation.”
Jim “You fucking cheese-eating surrender monkey. I thought someone stunk around here. So if I start speaking German can I push you around and take all your stuff? Those hairy fucking stink-bags would be speaking Kraut right now if it wasn’t for us, and they aren’t the least bit appreciative. I hope they all fucking die, and your frog-sympathizing ass with them.”

That pretty much settled it: I am going home with the tall one. The four of us head back to her apartment, and as we walk in, she tells us to be quiet, because her roommate is sleeping, and she is bipolar and will flip out. Telling me this, especially when I’m drunk, is akin to letting a starving, rabid pit bull loose in a Montessori school.

“Give me and Tim ten minutes with her; she’ll be trying to hang herself with her pantyhose. HEY–CRAZY! COME OUT HERE. I WANT TO POINT OUT YOUR FLAWS AND SHORTCOMINGS. I BET YOUR DAD DOESN’T LOVE YOU, DOES HE?”

I guess working with retards is the perfect precursor to hanging out with me.

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