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We’re well underway in the Summer of Love and we’ve had some magnificent guest posts already, including yesterday’s post from my buddy, Kevin. Lest you think this thing will be over any time soon, it won’t. I have people scheduled on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays all the way through the end of August. Just in time for my Birthday Spectacular in September, too, where I’ll revive the infamous Birthday Dares. More about that later.

I’ve been mired in BrittCon photos and recaps for over a week now - between the actual trip and the subsequent days back home - and rest assured today will be the final recap. This is a good thing. As Britt said in her post the other day, we’re all kinda tired of talking about it, even though it was a fantastic time. And as we all know, Karl cannot write a short recap. Most of you have given me praise for that, saying that it feels like you were there, and that’s really what I’m shooting for whenever I recap a trip. The rest of you can suck it!

I keep forgetting to link to the BrittCon set on Flickr so there ya go. You can see ALL the photos I took (most of them, anyway) in NYC there. And I’ll upload the final day’s photos later today. I didn’t want anyone peeking ahead…that’s cheating.

Even as I write this, I’m gearing up for the next big travel in my life: what I like to call Hillython 2008. I’ve booked my tickets to California and will be leaving in just over a week on July 15. This year it’s bigger and better than ever…I’ll be there for THREE WEEKS. And there will be much bloggity goodness^TM.

First off, there’s BlogHer 2008, my third year at the predominantly female blogging conference. After attending the first year, I knew that this would be an annual event for me. Not just because of all the free-roaming breasteses (over 1,800 boobs this year!), but because I’ve made some wonderful relationships with a lot of these women. I’ll be studying the Agenda the next couple of weeks, figuring out what sessions I want to attend (thanks again, Hakia.com, for my free pass), and also will be leading the BlogHims discussion group (which is a first this year, since roughly 10% of the attendees are men now).

Some of my friends are actually speaking in various sessions this year, too, so I’ll be there to support them. And yeah, I’ll be wearing goofy t-shirts. That’s my thing. Some might be offended, but most of the women there have a really good sense of humor and they know I’m just busting their chops. Those that don’t? Oh fucking well. When the founders of BlogHer joke around with me and laugh at my shirts, well, I’m not so worried about the small percentage of women that don’t get it.

And Hilly is going for the first time this year, too, which makes me giddy like a Catholic schoolgirl who just discovered masturbation. So is Jester. Awesome.

There will be much partying and rejoicing, I’m sure, and I know I’ll be spending a lot more time with Jester than at BlogHer. He’s got that 24-hour radio marathon in the works and plans to do it while I’m there, so I’ll be participating in that crazy experiment, all in an effort to raise money for gay orphans or gay poodles or some gay thing or another.

Then there’s ComicCon, which I’ve never been to, but look forward to. Major geekfest full of comic books and sci-fi fun. And Dave will be there for that, as well as DaveDiego. I don’t know if I’m ready for the wackiness that will likely ensue at ComicCon, but I’m willing to give it the ol’ college try. If I see Wonder Woman, I’m totally honking her hooters.

It’ll be a fun-packed three weeks. And on the way back to Orlando? I’ll be stopping over in Las Vegas for 2-1/2 hours. VEGAS, BABY, VEGAS! Cuz yeah, I’m so money. And I don’t even know it.

Right, onto Day 3 of BrittCon. Again, I hope you packed a lunch.

Day 1 is here, by the way.

Day 2 is here.

We woke up late on Sunday. By late, I mean around 7:30 or so. We’d crashed around 12:30, just seven hours before and, again, we each set our phones to alarm around 6:30am. Didn’t happen. Well, I’m sure they went off but we kept on sleeping. I had to turn my phone on vibrate because as soon as I reclined onto the floor, my phone started DING-DONG!ing again and again and again and again, all from twats coming to my cell. Twitter had apparently run behind on Saturday and suddenly I was getting caught up all in one massive barrage of twats.

Becky showered first, then Britt, while I went outside to make out and give them time to do their womanly magic. I can be showered and ready to go in about 10 minutes…another reason why it’s good to have a penis. And oh no! Jack’s World was closed! They have EVERYTHING. Did I mention that they have EVERYTHING? I think I did.

We went once again to Milk & Honey, a Jewish eatery a few doors down from our hotel on 45th. We considered going back to the Manhattan Cafe because it really was an outstanding breakfast the morning before, but - stupid fucking Christians - the cafe was closed because it was Sunday. So Milk & Honey it was. And we were all sorry that the Manhattan Cafe owners weren’t Jewish.

Because the breakfast really lacked. The bagels? Meh. The scrambled eggs and tomatoes? Meh. The orange juice was good, as was the coffee. But Britt’s and Becky’s breakfast (bagels) took around 5.3 hours to come to our table and when they did, they were fairly cold. And burnt. They sent them back and the next round was fine…and to be fair, the owner came over and asked us if everything was okay this time around. I like when owners do that. But honestly, compared to the breakfast 24 hours prior, it was just not as good.

We met up with Robin and Cissa outside and made our way back to Times Square for the third day in a row, stopping off at Starbucks so Robin could get her caffeine fix. Normally, I like to drink 2 or 3 cups each morning, but once you got outside in NYC, it was already pretty warm at 8:30 in the morning, so I switched over to water for the bulk of the remaining day.

Our bus stop was in a different location on Sunday because we were taking the Uptown Loop instead of the Downtown Loop. So we walked by my new church.

I was tempted to stop in for a free evaluation so I could start worshiping aliens or Tom Cruise or whatever the fuck Scientologists do, but Britt gave me a stern look and a wagging finger, saying, “It’s called BRITTCON! Suck it!”

We made it to our tour bus starting point and Becky ran into some camera shop to get yet another fucking memory card for her camera. See, Becky is so paranoid that she refuses to upload her photos off of the thousands of memory cards she has, for fear that her laptop will melt and she’ll lose all of her photos. I tried explaining that that is not very likely to happen, and that she could burn her photos onto CDs or DVDs and then have semi-permanent backups, but no. She paid $40 or so bucks for a 1GB card, which is (for those of you not in the know) a supreme ripoff.

LESSON: NEVER EVER buy your camera memory cards from a camera shop! Especially if it’s in Times Square, where even a Big Mac from McDonald’s costs enough to take out a second mortgage.

I failed to ask Becky what the fuck she’d do if and when her MEMORY CARDS fail (because they do that, you know). I don’t think she’s considered that possibility. Becky, seriously, dump your photos and reuse the cards. That’s what they’re FOR, not permanent storage.

OK, back on the bus we went and we were fortunate to get a fairly interesting tour guide again. Not as good as the first guy on Day 2, but still very articulate. And we set off for uptown, where we’d be going to the Metrosexual Museum (or maybe the Metropolitan Museum of Art) and then Central Park. Then, later in the day, the gay pride parade back in midtown.

Yep, we were still bound and determined to be casual sightseers, but fit in a bunch of things nonetheless. I was down to my last $20 in cash, though I had a little money left on my debit card. I actually had more than I knew because while I was in NYC, Uncle Sam threw my $300 tax incentive into my account. Yay! Didn’t know that until I got back to Orlando, though.

There are my lovely ladies once again, each of us bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and eager to have some major one-on-one time with New York City.

There’s Central Park, and it’s one of the only times we saw it. In case you’re late to the trip, there were a number of things we simply weren’t able to fit in. The Statue of Liberty was one of them, so was the Museum of Sex (waaaah!), and so was Central Park. I wasn’t all that jazzed about Central Park, to be honest, because let’s face it…it’s a bunch of grass and trees. Woo hoo. But Britt wanted to go badly, so *I* wanted to go, too. And I would really have loved to have seen Strawberry Fields (dedicated to John Lennon). But the weather prevented us from getting there.

So, yeah, the above photo totally counts.

We drove by a lot of buildings on the Uptown tour, including the Museum of Natural History. I remember going there as a kid on a field trip from Long Island. And I remember liking the dinosaurs. But I also remember thinking that most of it was boring as hell. Course, it might be different now that I’m (theoretically) an adult, but we didn’t go there.

Drove past a beautiful church. I can’t remember the name of it. That’s the problem with taking 400 pictures over the course of 3 days…it helps my memory with a lot of details, but names are not one of the details I retained.

See? Isn’t it purty?

We also passed by stuff like the apartment building where John Lennon lived and Yoko still lives (she totally killed The Beatles, I don’t care what you say). I didn’t snap a photo, but Britt did.

As we made our way into Harlem, we learned that the richest of the rich folks in Manhattan live near the center of the island. This is because rich people don’t want to leave near the water because that’s where all the shipping lanes are, and shipping is a dirty smelly business. So they want to be in the middle where Central Park is because they’re snobby like that and don’t want to mix with the commoners.

Even though Harlem has a nasty reputation for being dirty and dangerous, it’s no longer the case most of the time. It’s been rebuilt and refurbished and now that Bill Clinton has an office there, people (for some reason) worship him more than ever. (I am not one of those people, but hey, you have the freedom to be an idiot if you like. )

Look! It’s Pee On My Daddy, or whatever the hell his name is nowadays. I can never tell. He changes his name more than Prince. Rappers love them some Hennessey. And drive-by shootings.

This is the world-famous Apollo Theater. It’s known for starting many a great singer. James Brown, for example, who had a viewing there after his death. Weird. I’m totally having my viewing at a strip club. There will be many coffin dances. Anyway, the Apollo continues to have amateur night every week and you can still catch that show on television in most of America.

These are some of the many, many apartments in Harlem. I like these because they remind me of the Huxtable house from The Cosby Show. Or maybe Sesame Street.

We got into uptown and started driving what is called Museum Mile. Yeah, genius, lots of museums on that street. Very good. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you.

Finally got to the Metrosexual Museum and stepped off the bus. By now it was again pretty freaking hot. The top deck of the bus was fine because there was a breeze as we moved, but I knew I didn’t want to hit the bottom of the bus again. Karl likes his AIR!

We saw this guy playing sax as soon as we got off the bus. Just sitting there on his little stool playing bluesy versions of classics with an “I Love You” heart. I danced my ass off around the square as he played “Stand By Me” and “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” I would have tipped him some money, but hell, I was already broke.

He kinda reminded me of my trip to Seattle last year, when Sizzle and I left the Space Needle and I saw this man to the side with a sign for “Free Hugs.” Damn right I got my hug.

It was a really good hug, too.

When you have five people all going to an enormous museum, there’s bound to be differing wants and needs. Some people like modern art (like Cissa) and some people like classic impressionists (like me). Don’t get me wrong, I like *some* modern art, but not most of it. I don’t think that a bunch of feces flung onto a canvas is art. I don’t think that some Mondrian lines and painted squares are art. I don’t think Jackson Pollack painted art. I mean, anyone can just splatter paint on a canvas, even elephants.

But I also happen to believe that art is in the process and not the product. In that sense, I would agree that Pollack was an artist because if that dude didn’t suffer for his art, then no one did. I consider myself an artist in varying medias. Not a great artist by any stretch, but an artist nonetheless. My best work is probably in the written word, but I love to draw and doodle and paint in watercolors.

That’s a long way of saying that Cissa and Robin went off one direction and Britt, Becky, and I went another. The Met is a BIG place.

See?

Going to The Met, if you’re visiting NYC and happen to go, costs $20. Kind of. It’s a recommended donation. So when I gave the ticket lady my credit card to pay for Becky and I, she asked if $20 each was okay. Becky said, “What if it’s not? I mean he’s having a tough time financially.”

“Well, you can pay whatever you’d like,” she said.

So I paid $20 for the both of us. Later, Dawg told me that he always gives them a PENNY. He explained that the donation doesn’t really go anything towards the art, but rather goes to their private functions and parties held at The Met. Had I known that, I would have done the same thing. Oh well, it’s not like we didn’t get our money’s worth.

Aside from the impressionists on the second floor, my favorite part was the Superheroes exhibit. It’s actually about the influence of comics on fashion. We all know that I like to dance around in my living room in my boxers (and sometimes a Superman costume)…that’s superhero influence on my fashion.

You’re not allowed to take photographs in the Superheroes exhibit. In fact, I got yelled at by a German museum staff worker for taking a picture of the “Superheroes” sign outside the exhibit.

Fuck you, Germans. This is Spider-man we’re talking about here!

There’s Catwoman’s outfit from the 2nd Tim Burton Batman movie. For the longest time, all I wanted for my birthday was Michelle Pffeifer in patent leather. Yeah, never happened. The picture didn’t come out so great, but it’s not bad for a freaking cell phone pic from my LG phone. I love my cell phone because the camera lens rotates around from front to back, so you can do self-portraits just as easily as taking pictures of other people. It’s soon to be joining the Phones That Time Forgot, though, because when the new iPhone comes out this Friday, I’m totally getting one.

There was a lot of Greek and Roman art. Meh. I’m really not into sculpture. I mean, it’s impressive that someone took a block of marble or a slab of bronze and they chipped away and carved away, taking away only the bits that don’t look like whatever they’re creating. But sculpture rarely moves me like a painting will. I don’t know why, that’s just the way it is. Becky and Britt loved the Rodin sculptures. I just walked by them all, going, “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

Except for this sculpture. This was the only piece of modern art and sculpture I really dug. Yeah, you guessed it. It’s because of the exquisite feet.

Monet, however…LOVE. I could stand all day and look at Monet and Manet and Degas.

I’m totally not into florals, but when Monet painted anything he did it in amazing fashion. His paintings, with all the swirls and brushstrokes, are like candy for the eyes.

Becky and I walked by this one guy who was sitting on the floor, doing a sketch study of one of the Rodin sculptures while listening to his iPod. I like to think he was listening to something like Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” but he was probably listening to Alien Ant Farm or some such shit.

Look! It’s ass as art! Gotta love it. The Europeans aren’t hung up on sex like we are.

I remember when I first moved to England with my wife and kids. There were only four freaking channels on our little 13″ television. BBC1 and BBC2, and then channels 3 and 4. Very often, there were riveting shows on such as a six-part documentary series about mushrooms (I swear I’m not kidding here). Or maybe a three-month game of Cricket, a game I still don’t understand but I do enjoy saying “sticky wicket” because it makes me giggle almost as hard as the time my health ed teacher said “vagina” in 8th grade.

Anyway, to continue my digression, my wife and I were watching this documentary on BBC one night about the life of a human, from the moment of conception to the moment you’re on your death bed. From the womb to the tomb, so to speak. Very interesting, but it started out with this couple making love. I mean, REALLY going at it…full nudity, full SEX, at 8pm on a weeknight on broadcast television. That’s when I really fell in love with Europe. I fell even deeper in love when I went to Amsterdam, but that’s a story for another day.

Meanwhile, back on the ranch…

We spent some time trying to interpret the maps on the walls so we could find Britt the Degas pastels. I finally managed to find the room for her and, yeah, they were amazing. Course, the room was rather dim in comparison to the other rooms with oil paintings. That’s because pastels are much more susceptible to damage from light than oils are. Plus pastels are framed behind glass because, well, if you so much as sneeze or let any spittle fly you can ruin a pastel. It’s just oil-based chalk, after all. So the dim lights help cut down on the glare on the glass.

Still, they were marvelous and well worth the time it took to hunt them down.

This painting is entitled “The Forest in Winter at Sunset” by Theodore Rousseau. Love it. Britt and Becky said it was far too dark, but I like dark shit. It matches my insides. Never heard of this guy before, but I’m definitely going to check him out.

Got a few text messages and a phone call from Dawg, since he and Poppy were coming out to meet us at The Met. In fact, I got yelled at (again) for talking on the phone in the museum. Geez, you can’t sit on the front steps, you can’t take photos of superheroes, and you can’t talk on the phone? Are we in China? Am I at least allowed to urinate on the floor? I mean, COME ON!

After several hours, Britt and Becky and I wandered back downstairs toward the exit so we could enjoy some delicious NYC hot dogs for lunch. Ran into Cissa and Robin briefly on our way out, as they were coming back IN from hot dogs.

While we were outside, I got a jumbo $4 hot dog (Hebrew National!) and another water and we went and sat down on the little wall, which looked like it was surrounding a fountain or pool of some sort. Only thing is, there was no water inside it for some reason. I got some ketchup on my shorts, and then my sneakers, but no big deal. Collateral damage, totally acceptable. I hate mustard, by the way. It’s ketchup and relish and onions on hot dogs for me, thanks.

So while we were making out and the sun was beating down on us at around 95 degrees or so, who should come wandering up to us but Dawg and Poppy?

Yes, those Pwnies are real and they’re spectacular! I love Poppy because she’s witty and has a great smile and is a great hugger (though she claims to hate being touched) and shares a love of great t-shirts.

There’s Britt and Straight Dawg. Dawg also has great shirts and he picked this one out to commemorate Gay Pride Day in NYC. Note the symbolism of the monocolor rainbow. He wanted there to be no doubt. Apparently, he gets a lot of gay men hitting on him because he’s all studly and macho and they think he’s a “bear.” So although Dawg really has a large collection of studded leather collars and cockrings, he left them home this day to avoid confusion. Can’t say as I blame him.

It was shortly after Dawg and Poppy arrived that the dark skies opened up and thrust a monsoon upon us. In short order, I was soaked right down to my lace crotchless panties and the five of us attempted to gain shelter under the omnipresent yellow and blue Sabretts umbrella at the hot dog cart. Fucking bastards in the cart wouldn’t let us inside no matter how much titty Becky flashed.

We were ready to go to the gay pride parade at that stage and scratched the bus tour idea because of the rain. We contemplated taking the subway but that was a 3-block walk so we said forget that, too. Ready to take a cab, we had to wait on Robin and Cissa because they were still inside the Met enjoying dry lace crotchless panties and Cissa had presents to give to Dawg and Poppy. So we waited. And waited.

For half a fucking hour! In the pouring rain. Yes, I like Pina Coladas as much as the next guy and getting caught in the rain can be refreshing at times. But I’m not into health food and I really don’t care for champagne. I was attempting to keep everyone there under the umbrella (which wasn’t really helping because the rain was coming at us sideways) while we waited on Cissa and Robin. I really didn’t want to just leave, but she wasn’t answering my calls or my texts (some places in the museum have no reception).

Just as everyone was saying, “Fuck it, that’s it, we’re outta here” Cissa and Robin came prancing out the front door of The Met WITH umbrellas (those wenches!) and all was good.

We opted to skip Central Park because of the rain but we were still going to the parade, dammit. Britt, Becky, and I took a cab. The cabs in NYC are pretty cool because they have these TV screens on the back of the front seat, which show news and movies reviews…shit like that. But it’s on a split screen, so on the other side you’re seeing this GPS map with your location on it. You can also click on little ads, such as the one we clicked on for a new condominium that’s on sale for only $999,000 in uptown. One bedroom, one bath. What a steal!

The cabbie told us we couldn’t go where we wanted to go because the streets were all blocked off because of the fucking gays. So we instead opted to go back to our hotel, since the parade route was along 5th Avenue, a half block from our hotel. Back we went, the soaked puppies that we were, to drop off the bags we’d collected over the course of the day. I also changed into my “Fuck” t-shirt because it was the only dry shirt I had left. (We’d left our luggage with the hotel that morning after we checked out.)

That’s just a small portion of the shirt. It’s around 20 lines of fairly small text, saying, “Fuck the subway. Fuck Long Island. Fuck the Yankees. Fuck mean people. Fuck you. Fuck me.” Etc. etc. This shirt I would wear for the remainder of the day, all the way back to Florida. I found it at a street shop in Chinatown the day before. I love it, but it’s far from family-friendly.

The plan from the hotel was to head out to the parade and then go to Bryant Park (a few blocks from the hotel), where we’d heard there would be a gay rally (totally different than a gay raffle, which usually involves rhinestone-studded dildos that hum the tunes of Barbra Streisand).

So off we went to 5th Avenue and caught the tail-end (get it? TAIL? END?) of the pride parade. We got some pics, of course, and I also took a short video of one of the two floats we caught.

I think it’s pretty amazing that I dance like a gay person. I thought they somehow had more rhythm than me. But no.

It’s weird that I used to find the above sort of affectionate display repulsive. Yes, there was a time when I wasn’t as enlightened as I am now. I used to believe that homosexuality was an aberration, it was disgusting, it was against God. I used to believe that being gay was a CHOICE. I also used to believe that people were gay because of childhood sexual abuse. Granted, I’d been in intensive group therapy for YEARS and ran across many a gay  person in therapy who HAD been sexually abused as a child. But 1 and 1 do not ALWAYS equal 2.

I’m not an idiot or a moron. I’m pretty intelligent. And I don’t believe that everyone that shares the above views are morons, either. (Some of them are, of course.) They’re just ignorant. I’ve since met far too many gay people and I’m a more informed person nowadays, I’m glad to say.

I still don’t want to see two dudes making out, but then, I don’t want to see ANYONE making out, really, when I’m not one of the two people involved. I now know that being gay isn’t a choice any more than me being bipolar or diabetic is a choice. Still, you’re not going to sway the minds of most people either way, and I get that. I just don’t believe (regardless of what YOU believe) that gays should be treated as second-class citizens or that they should be denied any of the rights that straight people are afforded.

And like Becky and Britt, I was really jazzed to catch at least part of the pride parade. I think it rocked and wished we’d caught the whole thing.

There’s Becky and Gay Elmo, who wouldn’t allow us to snap any photos until we dropped a dollar into his donation bag. (And that’s not a euphemism.) By the by, Gay Elmo has a heavy Hispanic accent. Who knew?

There’s Fuck Karl and Gay Elmo. I think Gay Elmo squeezed my ass. I was flattered more than I was traumatized.

I’m sure “she’s” totally straight. *cough*

5th Avenue was a mob scene around the parade, as you can imagine. Took five minutes just to get across the street. It was like herding cattle. We started wandering toward Bryant Park, but were disappointed to discover that we’d heard wrong…there was no such gay rally (or raffle) in the park. The parade was really the sole event for the day.

We even asked a couple of cops who were assigned to the parade route. They’d heard of no such rally, but totally agreed to take a picture with Becky and I. (Hers will be on my Flickr later today.) Please note that one of the many things my “fuck” shirt says is “Fuck NYPD” (New York Police Department). I don’t agree with that particular sentiment. I think cops are great, and the NYPD in particular was especially friendly to us all weekend long. We stopped a number of cops to ask for directions, restaurant recommendations, and to uncuff us. All very nice folks.

We called/texted Robin and Cissa, who were waiting for us for quite a while in Bryant Park (serves them right for making US wait outside the Met in the cyclone!). Met up with them. Cissa had to leave shortly after that to catch a train home.

Meantime, Britt was bitching because a lot of her photos were coming out a little blurry. Becky looked at her lens (again, NOT a euphemism) and said it was smudged. So Britt proceeded to try to clean it off with her dress.

Thank the Kodak gods above (or in my case, the FujiFilm gods) that it wasn’t raining because I got this great shot. I really wished she’d hiked that dress up four or five feet higher, but still…

Looking all glamorous, there I am in Bryant Park, striking a pose. Vogue.

And this was the last photo I took with my camera in NYC. Whew! Guess the recap is over, right?

WRONG.

Just because it started raining like crazy after this doesn’t mean the day ended yet. I had to slip my camera into a plastic bag for the rest of our walking through NYC, but we kept on going.

Go ahead. Take a break if you must. I’ll wait. Hey, shut the door when you’re peeing, dammit! I don’t wanna see that shit.

OK, onward.

Robin came with Becky, Britt, and I as - and we also met up with Poppy and Dawg again - we went (ugh) shopping along 5th Avenue. After all, how can you visit NYC and not go shopping on 5th Avenue? If you’re a woman, I mean. I could get all detailed and bore the hell out of you by regaling about all the girlie shops we stopped in as we got even more soaking wet, but I won’t.

We went to a number of such shops suffice it to say, including this one that apparently sells the best makeup in the world. They even sell stuff for men such as Dr. Brandt Microdermabrasion cream. I have no idea what the hell that shit is supposed to do for me, but for $75 that 1.7-ounce jar better include a happy ending. I do know that as I get older, the skin around my nose gets really dry and flaky. Is that combination skin? No idea. Maybe I should have sat down for a makeover, but I’m afraid that they would have charged me $50 just to sit down.

So our final meal of the day was supposed to be New York City pizza. This became our Holy Grail. We marched up and down 5th Avenue in the pouring rain, looking for this holiest of holies.

Sbarros totally does NOT count.

After a good 30-45 minutes of looking and not finding anything, we were getting close to the dreaded Witching Hour, where we’d need to go back to our hotel, pick up our bags, and zip off in a cab to Laguardia to catch our planes.

“Hey,” I said, “There are a couple of pizza joints near our hotel!” And the crowd cooed merrily yay.

Back we went to 45th Street and found that there was, indeed, a pizza joint near our hotel. But it was really more of a grocery store/deli and there were no places to sit down. Britt noted that there was another pizza place further up the street. So away we went.

Fucking Christians again. Closed.

Screw it, we all said in quadrophonic stereo. Let’s go to the pub. And the crowd cooed merrily yay.

So we headed over to Connolly’s Pub, which was a grand mistake in almost every sense of the word. Yes, it was open. Yes, we were seated right away.

But the service totally sucked donkey balls which, for the purpose of this analogy, are not at all tasty. It took maybe 10 minutes just to get the waitress to take our fucking drink orders. Then it took even MORE time to get her to bring us the drinks and/or take our FOOD orders. Then it took a while to get our food, which was fine as far as I was concerned, but Britt, Becky, and I were staring at our watches more and more often because it was our goal to hit the road for the airport by 6:30pm. That did not happen.

Getting our checks was yet another nightmare, even though Becky was VERY clear to the waitress, telling her that we had to catch a flight and we were going to be late. Now, if *I* was a waitress, I would immediately make that table my first priority. Well, to be truthful, if I was a waitress I’d probably sit back in the kitchen and play my clitoris like Charlie Daniels plays a fiddle. But you get what I’m saying.

She did NOT make us the priority. Granted, she was a new waitress, but still…if you’re overwhelmed, call for backup, bitch. She delivered the checks and didn’t even wait for a moment to collect our credit cards. I had to physically get up and deliver our checks/cards to her, reminding her yet again that we were going to be LATE for our flights.

Got the checks paid and it was already past 6:30 so we start rushing the block back to our hotel when I suddenly remembered that I’d left my black plastic bag (with my camera in it!) on the table in the pub. So I ran back to get it and, whaddya know? They’d already cleared the table. Nice to know that they could do SOMETHING fast. Collected my camera and ran back outside, speeding past Dawg and Poppy, feeling rude but not caring at the moment because we were fucking late.

We each had a 9pm flight to catch and it was already 10 till 7pm. I realize that Laguardia is only 15-20 minutes away from midtown Manhattan, but I’m one of those people that likes to be there two hours early so I don’t have to stress and freak out and rush around to get to the gate on time.

Got our bags from the hotel, went outside where there was (thank God) a cab passing by. We flagged the cab driver and he pulled up in front. We rushed our goodbyes with Dawg and Poppy and Robin and got in, screaming to the cabbie, “Go, Speed Racer! Go!”

We took more photos from the cab…bridges, trees, each other, the cab driver, anything and everything NY we could snap photos of at the last minute.

And the cab driver got us to Laguardia really, really fast. At 7:20pm we were in front of the Jetblue terminal. Britt and I got out, kissed and hugged (and groped) Becky goodbye, and off Becky went to her airline.

This time, Britt and I went inside to check in because the Jetblue desk at Laguardia is much more efficient (and less crowded) than the Jetblue desk in Orlando. Britt checked the information screen and saw that the plane was on time. Whew!

We did the self-service computerized check-in thing and all was good. Back we went to the line to give the Jetblue people our bags and that’s. When. The. World. Fucking. Blew. Apart.

“You DO know that your plane is delayed, right?” said the reservation clerk.

“WHAT?!” said Britt. “I JUST checked the screen and it said it was on time!”

The woman shook her head. “No, it’s not. The plane is still in Atlanta and your flight is delayed three hours.”

THREE HOURS?! Yes, three hours. Our 9:00 flight, in fact, was due to depart at midnight, which is precisely 10 minutes after we were originally scheduled to LAND in Orlando.

“Fuck me in the ass,” Britt and I said in quadrophonic stereo.

We didn’t even have a gate assignment yet, so it was pointless to go through security. “Come back in an hour,” she said, “and I’ll have a gate assignment for you then.”

Well, shit my pants and call me chocolate. We weren’t starving or anything because we’d just eaten, but where the hell were we going to hang out until we went through security?

Worse yet, where the hell were some spare electrical outlets? Britt’s phone battery was dead and mine was on its last sputtering legs. And now we had HOURS to go before even getting on a plane. Britt had to call her husband to give him the news and I, well, I had to twat for the next few hours.

Just then Adam texted me and asked if I knew that our plane was delayed two hours. I replied, saying that it was THREE hours and could he please call Mister Britt and let him know that we wouldn’t get home until 4 or 5am. I texted my mother to fill her in.

And we went in search of plugs to charge our phones. We went to the food court…no plugs to be found. None that weren’t in use, anyway. We found a bar with an outlet, which didn’t work. And the bar was closing. WHAT? Fucking Sunday night. In fact, all of the restaurants in the food court were closing up shop.

The damn food courts and stores in airports should be open around the clock, you fucking idiots! Why would you close when there’s still money to be made? Infuriating.

We went back the other direction and found a cafe that was open and had some outlets. Sat down, plugged our shit in, bought a couple of drinks, and just relaxed for a while. Course, it was 8:30pm by this point and guess what? The cafe closes at 9pm on Sundays. Are. You. Fucking. KIDDING. Me?!

So we got about 45 minutes of juice into our phones (and Britt’s laptop). While sitting at the cafe, we talked with a nice family who were also kind of stranded, though by their own design. They’d decided to go home 4 days early and just showed up at the airport and hoped for the best. Kinda foolish, if you ask me, but whatever. They had an infant with them and their flight wouldn’t leave until 8:00 in the morning!

At 9pm, Britt and I packed up our stuff and walked back outside for another make out session, our last one of the evening. Checked with the Jetblue people, got our gate assignment and figured, what the hell…might as well go through security. It HAD to be better than the situation we were in BEFORE security, right?

Right?

WRONG.

Because once we rounded the corner past security, we came to a hallway FULL of people. People sitting on window ledges, people sitting on the floor along the walls, people standing. Everywhere. And it only got worse as we approached Gate B6.

Because we were not the only delayed flight. Not by a looooooooooooooong shot. No, we were one of around TEN delayed flights and guess where every single one of those people were? All huddled around the fucking gate we were supposed to leave from.

“This is not looking good,” I said, having mastered the understatement a long time ago.

It was standing room only and I’m not exaggerating. Here, take a look at this short video clip I took with my phone.

That was my standing view. You can’t even see most of the people sitting on the floor. Every seat was taken and was a valued commodity. People sitting in the middle of the floor, even around the gate desk. Everywhere.

We pulled up a small section of floor behind some chairs and sat down. Britt got out her laptop, making the best of a really shitty situation, and started going through her multitudes of photos from the weekend. I, without a laptop, just sat down and watched her for the most part, occasionally twatting and sending cell photos to Flickr.

We were more than exhausted. There were no words for how tired we both were. We’d gone three days straight, balls to the wall, for 16-18 hours a day and now we couldn’t even sit in a chair.

And yes, I think I need to remind you how fucking skittish I am in big crowds of people. NYC was one thing, people were always on the go and so was I. THIS made being in a sardine can seem like a spacious mansion in comparison. It was stagnant. Nobody was fucking moving. Anywhere you wanted to go, you literally had to step over and around people.

Several times I thought I was just going to go back through security and wait it out a while, where I was free to smoke and sit in CHAIRS. But I didn’t. Didn’t want to go through security yet again because the line was not very short.

I went and got a Diet Coke because there was no way I could even dream of sleeping in that third world country of a mess. Unlike some people, who can clearly sleep ANYWHERE.

Once Britt reclined on the floor, poor thing, I stood up for an hour and a half and acted as her official Blocker. Yeah, I stood right in front of her so that nobody would step on her…or OVER her (for fear they would stumble and THEN step on her). Yeah, I’m a nice guy that way. Truthfully, I would gladly have slept but the scene was far too freakishly claustrophobic for me to catch any winks. So I stood there for 90 minutes.

Finally, another plane landed and started loading some of the people on. Not OUR flight, of course, but every person that left the gate area was one less person to be all up in my grille. My feet were KILLING me, I desperately wanted to take my shoes off, but no way was that going to happen until I got on the plane.

Need I remind you that I’m still wearing the “FUCK” shirt? Nobody fucking bothered me, that’s for sure. In fact, only one woman said anything to me, some really nice pregnant lady who asked me if I knew what flight was boarding. I admitted that I did not know (nor did I really care since it was Spirit Air and that was  not in any way connected with the airline I was waiting on).

There were routine updates over the loudspeakers, which you really had to listen to attentively because the crowd noise was intense. Our plane was still scheduled to take off at midnight, and it was now 11:30pm. As another delayed flight finally started boarding, the two seats behind us opened up and I quickly threw my carry-on onto one of them.

I woke Britt up and asked if she wanted to sit down. She mumbled something resembling “yes” and we managed to work our way around and through the other boarding line and into the seats. Naturally, our plane started boarding 10 minutes later.

Thanks be to Britt for booking our flight and getting an exit row. We fell into our plane seats and prepared for lift-off. I took off my sneakers and my feet screamed “Hallelujah!” Britt was cold - poor thing had worn a sleeveless dress (as seen in the above photos) and airlines don’t provide blankets any more. At least most of them don’t. I would have gladly given her my shirt if it weren’t for scaring the other passengers. At any rate, she was drifting off before we even left the runway.

Granted, she only slept in fits and spurts because she was so cold. I, for whatever reason, couldn’t sleep right away so I watched MASH on the DirecTV and then fell off to sleep myself. I woke up about 10 minutes before touchdown in Orlando. Couldn’t WAIT to go make out.

Just before the plane landed, one of the air waitresses said, “I’m surprised that they let you onto the plane with that shirt.”

“Really?” She was kidding. “Long story, but it was pouring rain and this was the only shirt - ”

“I love it,” she said.

Got off the plane. The air waitress said, “Rock on” as I walked past her and I repeated the sentiment. Should have gotten her phone number. Dammit.

Walked to the tram. Took tram to main airport building. Stumbled along like a zombie to baggage claim. Massive crowd around the giant conveyor belt. Went outside to make out.

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh. Sweet, sweet lung pollution.

Those are the weary Alpha Bloggers at 3:45am (according to the timestamp on Flickr). Ain’t nothing gonna keep us down. *cough*

Right. Luggage collected. Downstairs to wait on the parking shuttle bus. I actually had the presence of mind to sing another impromptu version of “We’re Waiting On the Shuttle Bus” but my heart really wasn’t in it and I think we both knew it.

Still, I said, “BrittCon is NOT over until we get to your house, dammit!”

Britt chuckled and said weakly,

“yay, brittcon.”

Shuttle to the Blue Lot. Car. Luggage in car. Driving 45 minutes to Britt’s house. Pulled up in front of the house (because my car and her hubby’s were in the driveway). She put the car in Park and then I said, “NOW BrittCon is over.”

“So am I,” she said.

In the house. Hugs good night. Off to bed she went. Me, I actually fired up my laptop, believe it or not. Nothing pressing in my email that couldn’t wait for 5-24 hours while I hibernated.

And I crashed. Hard. For five hours.

But really? That’s another day. And this recap is officially over.

There? Aren’t you sad you didn’t go?

Filed under Humor, Local Goings On, Travel, Video | Comments (25)

Ladies and Gentlemen. Due to lack of interest, today the part of Karl Erikson is played by Kevin Gilhooly.

Howdy! This is Kevin from Dallas, and welcome to another guest blogging edition of 2HT during the Summer of Love! I’m the virtual bartender at Kevin’s Pub, have my own blog, and I’ve known Karl for what seems like decades, and yet I’m still speaking to him, so I was pleasantly surprised (and just a wee bit suspicious) to receive his cordial invitation to guest-blog (”Your due date is Friday, and I need 2,000 words or so. Quality writing, for once. No more Irish jokes. Try to keep the Guinness references to a minimum. Don’t make me look bad.”)

I’m assuming Karl’s taking partial weeks off all summer is called the Summer of Love because the Summer of My Right Hand would be too close to My Left Foot which I believe starred an Englishman, which just goes to show that not everyone is privileged enough to be Irish. However, he was playing an Irishman, so at least he was trading up.

Speaking of Irish stories, this one unites my Irish and Texan heritages.

A Texan walks into a pub in Galway, and hollers, “I hear all y’all Irish folk are a bunch of drinkin’ fools. I’ll give $5000 American dollars to anybody in here who can drink ten pints of Guinness back to back.”

The room is quiet and no one takes the Texan up on his offer.

Paddy Murphy quietly gets up and leaves the bar. Thirty minutes later, he shows back up and taps the Texan on the shoulder. “Is your bet still good?” asks Paddy.

The Texan answers, “Yes”, and he orders the barman to line up ten pints of Guinness.

Immediately, Paddy downs all ten pints, drinking them all back to back. He then belches politely and sits down at the bar. The other pub patrons cheer and the Texan slumps down in amazement. He gives the Irishman the $5000 and asks, “If y’all don’t mind me askin’, where did y’all go for that 30 minutes you was gone?”

Paddy Murphy replies, “Oh.. I had to go to the pub down the street to see if I could do it first.”

I’m sure that Karl is currently off sleeping somewhere, so rather than just clearing my head of a bunch of random thoughts or ranting about any of the problems of the day, I thought I would write something that might actually help him in the long run. We all know that he can blog (and blog and blog and freakin’ blog), but who makes any real money off of blogging, other than using someone else’s blog as a platform to sell a kidney? What Karl needs to do is pour all his angst into a song or two, and crystallize his sadness, anger and fury (strangely enough, that was my ex’s divorce lawyer. Sadness, Anger and Fury. No wonder I lost the house.)

Where was I? Oh, right. Music. That’s where the money is. Just ask the record companies, or better, ask Steve Jobs. Plus, writing his own songs would give Karl something new to sing at karaoke bars. If that doesn’t work, he could always finish his autobiography he started when he was about twelve, although that would require hanging out in coffeehouses again (private note to Karl: go back and scratch out all the times you scribbled “Nice Rack!!” in your journal. Some thoughts don’t need to be shared, and those chicks are long gone. Besides, we can’t see them walking by you in the book. This is going to play hell with your word count, though.)

If you’ll pardon the interruption, and since Karl warned me to keep it to a minimum, I would like to pay a short tribute to some of the famous Irishmen that have gone before me, before I begin the post to end all posts.

Please bow your heads.

What Irishman comes out in the Spring? Paddy O’Furniture.

Who are the two most famous gay Irishmen? Patrick Fitzgerald and Gerald Fitzpatrick.

Thank you.

So, as a public service and a private suggestion to Karl, I present the “Xriva Method of Writing a Song“, published here for the first time, rather than on Squidoo, where instructional manuals of this quality usually reside. My guest blogging post starts … now.

How to Write a Song

There are any number of basic ways to write a song, with varying levels of complexity. This article will show you a couple of time-honored shortcuts to help you on your way to quickly becoming a successful composer. Once you’re composing songs, you form a band, and you’re on your way to stardom and easy riches!

Traditional Composition Method

The traditional method of musical composition requires copious study and hard work and has been practiced for centuries by many geniuses (and many not so much.)

First, you have to learn to write both music and lyrics, which can take some time, but may be worth the effort if you’re going to do this for a living and not just try to cash out with one big hit. You could choose to only learn half of the composing job (either words or music), but then you would have to find your own Bernie Taupin or your own Elton John, which implies that there are more than one of each in the universe.

Stop and consider that for a moment. Multiple Reginald Dwights running around with their hair (and Lord knows what else) plugged. Hmm. Have you stopped shuddering yet? Let’s continue.

Then, you must learn an instrument, so you have a way of reproducing your music, rather than just trying to do it in your head or trying to hum everything. This is the hard way. Nobody does anything the hard way these days, except possibly the Amish, and they don’t sing very much, and they’re probably not on the web.

Assisted Composition Method

A simpler way is to take some mind-altering drugs and then write whatever comes to mind. Lyrics can sometimes appear very quickly with this method, so have a pen and paper ready before ingesting the drugs. You may want to mark the pen as “the pen” to make sure you can identify it when needed. It might be easier to just set up a tape recorder. Remember to speak clearly, about 2″ away from the microphone. If you can’t speak clearly, you have very good drugs. Don’t try to work. Just enjoy it. If you can’t breathe, you’ve overdosed. This is a problem if you haven’t already started a career, but a boost to sales if you have.

The challenge of this method is that the quality of the song produced is often directly related to the quality (and quantity) of the drugs ingested, so for every “Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup” (which is basically poetry defined) that you compose, you will get at least forty-two variations on “Damn. That’s one big pink elephant and I need to pee.” which really doesn’t rhyme with anything.

The Xriva Method

The most time-effective way to write a song is to just borrow someone else’s music and possibly even their lyrics, especially when you’re just getting started as a composer. This is called “stealing” by the record companies, “sampling” by rap artists, and “parody” by Weird Al. However, if you borrow dead people’s music, it’s called “to the tune of” and that’s the best way of all.

If anyone ever complains about your song re-using an older tune rather than your writing your own music from scratch, you can just say, “Hey, it’s not like Francis Scott Key wrote the bloody music to the Star-Spangled Banner! It was originally a drinking song!” (History will show they were drinking Guinness, the drink of gods, a meal in a bottle, the blood of an Irishman. If you’ve had four or five pints, you’ll understand the tune. You will still not understand The Star-Spangled Banner.) This is a good defense, and also shows you are a musical historian as well as a composer.

Find a tune that you like (say “Camptown Races“, which everybody seems to know), and when your lyrics are complete, your new song is instantly ready to be performed by many other people. These performances are called “cover versions.” People who are performing “cover versions” simply pay royalties to perform your music, instead of writing their own from scratch. Royalties are how Sir Paul McCartney could afford to get divorced recently. (I believe in “Yesterday”, indeed.)

Next, find a subject you know something about, or would like to know more about. (Just remember, if you don’t know much about the subject, you might have to do research, which can rather be time-consuming and cut into your musical career.)

Most people seem to write about love or sex. In rock music, it’s usually love. In country music, it’s usually lost love. In blues, they often write about death, usually during or shortly after sex.

Many artists find that in addition to a subject, they also require a muse - someone to help inspire their work. The muse often is the subject of the song. This could be your spouse, your lover, someone you want to be your lover or your Old English Sheepdog. When I first heard a writer had a muse, I heard “amuse”, so all of my songs tend to be humorous. Somewhat.

Since I’m old and married, I often write about the perils of growing older, like losing my keys or garlic-induced farts. My lovely Spousal Unit is my muse, so I often tend to write songs just to annoy her, which is what happens as muses age. However, I want my work to be taken seriously, so I usually end my song titles with “Blues.” This means something sad is either going to happen in the song, or has happened recently and is the main theme. Now, if you’ve ever been around somebody farting, it’s pretty sad, especially if it’s an enclosed space. Having your song be a blues song also means you don’t need to play many notes on a guitar to actually perform the song.

[One more great thing about the blues - you generally only write about half a song, since everything is repeated. So, instead of having to explain why Karl seems so sad today, you just say "Karl is dyin' inside, Yes, Karl is dyin' inside", which makes the point more subtly. Then, you go on to the next verse, which is probably about sex or someone else dying or perhaps Karl's favorite porn site being down.]

An Annotated Example

Here is an annotated version of my newest song, to show you how to put this all together. It’s a rather short piece, which demonstrates that good songs don’t need to be really long to be successful (four minutes of “na na na na Hey Jude “, my ass.) However, all good songs should have a backstory - which is why VH1 can produce so many “Storytellers” episodes.

Here is the backstory for this particular song. My Spousal Unit and I took my vegetarian niece to our local Genghis Grill recently, since it is one of the few places in the bloody universe that she can eat her damn vegetables while I can actually get some cooked dead animals and not just assorted leaves and berries. (However, I am not bitter about vegetarians. I love them. Especially baked.) While choosing the ingredients for my delicious Mongolian stir-fry, I slightly overdid the amount of fresh garlic on my entree. Had I been an automobile, the results would be called a “backfire.” In a restaurant, it requires looking askance at the table next to you, which is called “diverting the blame.”

I thought it was worth writing a song about this condition, mainly as a warning to future generations on the dangers of excess garlic, not that any Italians would ever listen to me. Actually, the first line just popped into my head, so I had to finish the rest of it, since the Spousal Unit and my niece both seemed disturbed when I recited the opening line in the car going home (more backstory.) As an aside, “Camptown Races” is a good basis for many songs, since if you just leave the “doo-dah”s in, you have that much less to write lyrically. This gives you time to actually bring out the joy or angst in the rest of your lyrics, depending on your mood.

I also wisely used the name of the company in the title of the song. This is called “product placement.” If the song is popular, maybe they would sponsor my tour. They could also post the lyrics at their stores, for a small fee, payable to me. Posting lyrics without writing music is called “poetry” and it is a good way to meet chicks, almost as good as writing songs. It is also a good way to do half a songwriter’s job, and still get full credit as an artist.

Genghis Grill [1] Blues [2]

by Blind John Ellsworth [4]
to the tune of “Camptown Races” [3]

Daddy’s having Genghis Gas [5]
Doo-dah, Doo-dah
Flames are shooting out his ass [6]
All the doo-dah day. [7]

Got the runs all night, [8]
Got the runs all day.

Too much garlic every time
It always ends this way. [9]

Garlic’s good on anything
Doo-dah, Doo-dah
“Til it makes your anus [10] sing
All the doo-dah day

Got the runs all night, [11]
Got the runs all day.

Give me garlic every time
To blow my cares away. [12]

Garlic comes in bulbs and cloves [13]
Doo-dah, doo-dah
Spread it on some toasted loaves
That’s garlic bread [14]

Got the runs all night,
Got the runs all day

Garlic is a tasty plant
That keeps vampires at bay. [15]

Garlic, garlic everywhere
Garlic, Garlic [16]
It can help you keep your hair [17]
All the Garlic day

Got the runs all night,
Got the runs all day

Garlic helps your penis grow [18]
Your lover shouts “Hooray!”

Notes

1. product placement
2. a blues song - which means a serious subject ahead!
3. so Stephen Foster’s descendants don’t sue immediately
4. a pseudonym, also helps deflect lawsuits
5. slightly more subtle product placement
6. the pain promised by “blues” title
7. don’t rewrite every line - that’s just overkill
8. a pun, based on the original lyrics to make sure the audience pays attention
9. “ends”? in a fart song? I crack me up.
10. use the proper term in printed lyrics to seem more intelligent, just change it when singing to “asshole” or “buttocks” to seem more bluesy
11. repeat the chorus so the slow folks can still sing along
12. again with the fart puns?
13. learned this on the Food Network - possible product placement in future verses
14. change from usual verse structure - just to show we can
15. remind non-Italians why they know about garlic besides garlic bread
16. clever changing of the chorus like George Harrison changing “hallelujah” to “hare krishna”
17. Anti-spam mechanism. Why click on ads if you can just eat garlic?
18. More anti-spam. Upgrade my penis, indeed.

So, that’s it. Now, you’ve seen how to write a song, using an existing tune and produced four verses, so you can have a three-verse single plus an extended album version with naughty bits they won’t play on the radio. You’re humming “Genghis Gas” now, aren’t you? Where are my royalties?

Filed under Guest Post, Humor, Music | Comments (8)

This is a Summer of Love guest post from Karen Sugarpants.

Once upon a time there was a really hot sexy chick named Dorothy.  She lived in Kansas and liked Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain.   (And candy apples too, but that wasn’t on her Facebook profile or anything because she didn’t want anyone to think that was a metaphor for something else, if you know what I mean.  *wink wink*)

One day Dorothy posed for a creepy photographer, thinking he would give her a wicked awesome modeling job.  Because gingham is SO IN RIGHT NOW.

He thought she was purty.  He kidnapped her by luring her with costume jewelry and fancy shmancy lipsticks.

Three very special people tried to come to her rescue.  Yay!  Every story needs a Heroic Trio!

First, The Damn Scarecrow, who was really afraid of the dark and slept with his thirty seven teddy bears tucked in beside him, every night.  Oh and he was also scared of elevators and ants.  If he saw an ant, he peed his straw underpants.  Straw underpants are really itchy.  Wet straw underpants are SCARECROW HELL.

The second hero coming to Dorothy’s rescue was The Tin Man.  He spoke in a slow, Southern drawl and sometimes Dorothy called him “Tinny Joe.”

Poor Tin Man had little tin crabs (yeah, those kind.  Down there.)  So his pants were really itchy too.  Not so much because of the crabs, but because their little tin legs got caught in his tin pubic hair and when he scratched, he had horrible shrapnel-coated testicles.  It sucked being The Tin Man.  But hey, TIN DICK!

The third hero was more vital than anyone. She was a Hero’s Hero.  A real trooper.  A motherfucking Terminator in Oz.

But…uh…well….she had a bit of a drinking problem…

The Hellohahanar Flion was a special sort.  When sober, she was stronger mentally and physically than a TRUCK!   When she drank though, it was as if her brain morphed into a sad little tugboat.  A broken, rusty tugboat that really was better off putting her brain power into trying not to piss all her gasoline out after the seal broke.  Poor Hellohahanar Flion.  She really is a sweetheart.

~~~

Nevertheless, despite their teensy tiny faults, The Heroic Trio trekked on down the road to find Dorothy.  But they ran into a bad bad bad bad bad bad witch.  She got pissy over stupid stuff like if you set her hair on fire or tried to make her shower before noon.  It was like she was on the rag all the time and just needed a good solid dose of Cheerthefuckup.

Eventually, The Heroic Trio lost the bad bad bad bad bad bad witch because The Good Witch with the Great Hair floated down like the true hummingbird that she is.  Her hair doubled as flight equipment and dripped with awesomeness. (that hair literally needed no Photoshopping for this story, let me just tell you.)

An aside: My, what long fingers you have, Good Witch with the Great Hair! And that is a lovely butterfly necklace.

“Hey bitches!  Whattya looking for?”

The Heroic Trio told her they had been looking for Dorothy and that they thought she was in GRAVE DANGER.

The Good Witch with the Great Hair giggled like a school girl, “You silly fuckers!  She’s been partying with us on the Bitchkin Pontoon with the Coors Lite Girls!  We had to hire Rick Moranis to shrink her because you know, Bitchkins are only 2 inches tall.  So write Rick a cheque for $87.50 will ya!

“Oh here are my little bitchkins now!”

“Word.”

“Word.”

“Word.”

The Damn Scarecrow’s jaw dropped.  How could dudes SO tiny not fall over, what with the fact they had 36lb testicles?  And WHERE could he get pants like that?

The Heroic Trio was not at all disappointed in the fact that they wouldn’t have to go on a huge stupid mission to save Dorothy and her dumbass lipstick collection anyway, especially since Hellohahanar Flion was half in the bag and The Tin Man had scratched his poor twig and berries until they bled hot solder.  That Damn Scarecrow was trying so hard to hold on to all thirty seven of his teddy bears and kept dropping them so travel would have been a total drag.

But just for shits and giggles, they went back and dropped a house on the bad bad bad bad bad bad witch of the Great White North for writing such a shitty story.

The end.

Filed under Guest Post, Humor | Comments (46)