Day 5

It’s 11:16 at night and my own guts hate me for the smorgasbord of processed food that has been jam packed down my throat for the past four days. I think for every appetizer that has been ordered on this trip, a marathon runner has died in its behalf. Moments like tonight make me wish deep down that I were a closet bulimic. And no, I don’t read minds Derek Zoolander.

For full effect, download “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

It is the end of a long, long, long week. And I’m having a difficult time stomaching the thought of my eyes even being open this late. It almost feels like the ending of the film, Ocean’s 11, as a group of rag-tag comrades stare at the glamorous fountain of the Bellagio, and hear Clair de Lune strumming away in the background. In this case it’s a handful of farting vagabonds trapped inside a box of methane, rolling south on I-15, meanwhile hearing the same three notes of a Matt Nathanson song whistled by Keith Tronic.

Don’t ask any of us how we got into this mess.

Quote of the day: Delivered so eloquently by the wise sage known as the Mrs. Dixie Bo Jackson. “You know it’s bad when holy water is easier to get than a Wi-Fi connection.”

In the seat behind me, Average-Sized Applegate and the Rhinestone Cowboy are nestling up to each other watching “The Grey”. One of them is still making rhythmic belching gestures after licking clean his Dulce de leche cheesecake plate. The other is still pissed off at the rest of the group deciding that the deficiency in his salt nutrients should be replenished in his glass of water every time that he steps away from the table. We got you good. Four times and you know it!

In the seat behind them, the Taylorsville 12-ouncer stares out the window and dreams about one day stealing Tom Brady away all for herself. That seems like a sensible blogalias don’t you think? I was going to call her the 12-ounce tickler, but that sounds like she is probably pursuing a career at Southern Exposure. Nothing wrong with that, a girl’s gotta pay the rent doesn’t she?

Have I mentioned before that I have an addiction to telling lies? We all have problems, I know. I would like to issue a formal apology to a few of the people that we ran into this afternoon. First there was the snazzy blonde saleswoman decked out in exercise gear who was trying to weasel us into buying a vibrating earpiece. No, I’m not actually from Germany. And when I said, “Nein, Ich bin ein Berliner.” I was actually pointing out that I am in fact a jelly donut.

Second, was the trio of shaving sales reps who were victims of the elaborate concoction that I fabricated when asked what we were doing in Salt Lake all the way up from Dixie State College. Of course we’re not judges for the regional junior high dance competition going on just down the street. And no, we’re not that interested in your son taking up ballet this upcoming fall while he’s in high school. Come on lady, who do you think us four ridiculously good-looking chaps are? We judge competitive team dancing, none of that Black Swan garbage. Geez!

Rules of R.O.A.D.S. for the day: 1. The word “both” does not include the letter L in it. 2. If you go to Cheesecake Factory twice in the same week, you cannot order the same meal. That includes you, Rhinestone Cowboy. Broaden your horizon and quit ordering the Louisiana Pasta.

We’re just passing through Nephi, and I just popped back an aspirin dug up from my local drug dealer. For some reason, my whole body hurts. Every last muscle. I think what hurts me the most is my torn labia. That’s the muscle that’s in your shoulder right? Labia, labrum, whatever. Maybe I should have taken a human anatomy class just to make sure I’m not confusing things.

It has been a long, long, long journey on the road, and my eyes are sagging even heavier than they were an hour ago. In the back of my mind I sometimes wonder if this is all worth that extra $65 a month. But then Keith Tronic asks in an inbred voice to stop one more time at the local Maverick, followed by the Royal Jericho mimicking the sound of a bird in the backseat because it’s after ten p.m. Average-Size Applegate bites a hole in his tongue trying to win that $50 bet, while the Rhinestone Cowboy talks to random strangers in trench coats lighting cigarettes. The Taylorsville 12-ouncer orders another salad while the Dixie Bo Jackson couple provide comedic relief asking to play the game charades with clues being two pointer fingers and a dribbling basketball motion. All of this goes on while I make B-list movie references and drop F-bombs in public.

Man, I L-word this job. There will never be anything like this ever again.