Thursday, August 26, 2004
I'm going to miss my CD shipment...
In approximately nine hours I'm leaving for the airport and flying down to fabulous... North Carolina! (I've been telling you all South Carolina for days, haven't I? Well, I'm a retard. Now that we've got that out of the way....) Why are we taking a plane when it's a four hour drive? Because on the way back, we will be driving... our fabulous... new Lincoln!
Actually, it isn't exactly new, it's a model from a couple years back and used to belong to my grandmother. The sane one, naturally. Although I'm not sure if "sane" really applies to her anymore. My dad and I -- in front of my mother and sister, mind you -- were talking about possible vacation spots to hit, since obviously the Scotland thing is never going to work out. (My mom has all but chained us to the floor to keep us from going to Europe without her.) So my dad, huge fan of Mardi Gras (though what male isn't?) and slightly mental, suggests that we drive down to New Orleans!
Of course, this is the part where any sane family would argue back, "Hell no! You're not taking my teenage daughter down to the party capitol of America!" But in actuality the argument was like, "How are you going to drive back? There are laws about drunk driving."
"Christine will drive."
Then me, loudly: "In Europe, there are no drinking ages, and I could spend my time hitting it (what does that even mean, by the way?) at the local pub with guys in tartan pants."
"Pants...? Do you mean kilts?"
"No, I mean pants. Who the hell wears kilts anymore?"
"There's this guy in DC who plays the bagpipes and he's out there every day in a --"
"Prince Charles has a pair of tartan pants, god, I wish someone would tell him what a fag he looks like in them...."
And so this goes on for a couple of hours. (I am, by the way, not joking about this.) My father, not at all interested in British royalty, is trying to talk up New Orleans, because apparently he is now completely set on going. "It's amazing down there, really, it is, you've never seen shit like this before... I was at this show during Mardi Gras, and this chick had one tassel going this way --" insert hand gestures "-- and one tassel going this way!" Then this thick layer of horrified silence settles in ever so nicely.
And do you know who took him to this astoundingly intellectual show?
My grandmother. My completely *psychotic* grandmother.
.... god, I really veered off there.
Couple notes before I head off to start packing (ha ha) : Don't you dare have your Disney party without me. We'll only be spending a couple nights, I'll be back either Saturday or Sunday, depending both on how much "sightseeing" my mom wants to do in exotic North Carolina and on how long my sister can go without the internet... or South Park, really, I don't think my grandma has a DVD player. Speaking of me not being a complete freak, here's a picture I did of Pip (the little British kid from the show) and Damien (the son of Satan) disco dancing with a tube of strawberry lubricant! -\CLICK!/-
None of you are going to miss me, are you?
Actually, it isn't exactly new, it's a model from a couple years back and used to belong to my grandmother. The sane one, naturally. Although I'm not sure if "sane" really applies to her anymore. My dad and I -- in front of my mother and sister, mind you -- were talking about possible vacation spots to hit, since obviously the Scotland thing is never going to work out. (My mom has all but chained us to the floor to keep us from going to Europe without her.) So my dad, huge fan of Mardi Gras (though what male isn't?) and slightly mental, suggests that we drive down to New Orleans!
Of course, this is the part where any sane family would argue back, "Hell no! You're not taking my teenage daughter down to the party capitol of America!" But in actuality the argument was like, "How are you going to drive back? There are laws about drunk driving."
"Christine will drive."
Then me, loudly: "In Europe, there are no drinking ages, and I could spend my time hitting it (what does that even mean, by the way?) at the local pub with guys in tartan pants."
"Pants...? Do you mean kilts?"
"No, I mean pants. Who the hell wears kilts anymore?"
"There's this guy in DC who plays the bagpipes and he's out there every day in a --"
"Prince Charles has a pair of tartan pants, god, I wish someone would tell him what a fag he looks like in them...."
And so this goes on for a couple of hours. (I am, by the way, not joking about this.) My father, not at all interested in British royalty, is trying to talk up New Orleans, because apparently he is now completely set on going. "It's amazing down there, really, it is, you've never seen shit like this before... I was at this show during Mardi Gras, and this chick had one tassel going this way --" insert hand gestures "-- and one tassel going this way!" Then this thick layer of horrified silence settles in ever so nicely.
And do you know who took him to this astoundingly intellectual show?
My grandmother. My completely *psychotic* grandmother.
.... god, I really veered off there.
Couple notes before I head off to start packing (ha ha) : Don't you dare have your Disney party without me. We'll only be spending a couple nights, I'll be back either Saturday or Sunday, depending both on how much "sightseeing" my mom wants to do in exotic North Carolina and on how long my sister can go without the internet... or South Park, really, I don't think my grandma has a DVD player. Speaking of me not being a complete freak, here's a picture I did of Pip (the little British kid from the show) and Damien (the son of Satan) disco dancing with a tube of strawberry lubricant! -\CLICK!/-
None of you are going to miss me, are you?
christopher @ 11:00 AM