Mark Foley is a Silly Goose

Congressman Mark Foley recently resigned from the House after allegedly having inappropriate communications with male pages. Foley was a Republican Rep. from the state of Florida, known for its old people, hurricanes, and “hanging chads.” (I’m sure there’s an innuendo joke there, but there’s plenty more where that came from.) And for those of you who don’t know what a page is, it’s basically an intern that’s underage.

Rep. Mark Foley is not to be confused with Chris Farley’s famous SNL skit, Matt Foley, who “lives in a van down by the river,” while the former Congressman, gives in a van down by the river. (See, there’s a quick and easy joke.)

After ABC posted information about emails and Internet chat conversations he had with teenage pages, he resigned on Friday, September 29. Mark Foley, ironically/hilariously, was an active opponent of the exploitation of children and internet predators. He was, however, a proponent of the local YMCA, Boy Scouts, and altar boy training programs.

News organizations spanning the globe were quick to point out that Foley was single, unlike the most recent homosexual scandal involving Governor Jim McGreevey from New Jersey, who was married with a daughter. Foley claimed to be living the bachelor life, having a good time, and cruising the local t-ball games for potential pages.

Fox News, known for its always balanced journalism, even put “who is single” in the lead. There’s no need to try to help the guy find a date, guys. He’s had a hard enough time with relationships recently without the news writing a Match.com ad for him.

“Creepy old politician enjoys long walks on the beach, watching wrestling, and inappropriate internet chats with minors. Email me a pic of you blowing out the candles at your sweet sixteen. Must love dogs.”

In recent developments, Foley has cited everything from mental illness to alcohol abuse to sexual confusion as excuses for his actions. Foley has even checked into alcohol rehabilitation saying he has “accepted the need for treatment for alcoholism and other behavioral problems.” According to his lawyer he regrets what happened and apologizes to his voters. He also wishes he wasn’t required by law to go around and tell those same voters when he’s moving into the neighborhood.

When I asked him to comment during an interview about his alleged sexual abuse of underage boys, he instinctively asked, “a/s/l?” I responded with “are oh eff el em a oh,” uncomfortably. But soon Foley made me feel right at home, tussling my hair and giving me a lolly. He asked me to call him Maf54, so I did, and before we knew it we were in our boxers discussing who was horny. Things happen. I was crazy and drunk and oh-so confused.

Foley’s department store declined to comment on the developing story, but an unnamed source did tell us that a sale had boy’s pants half off. And we laughed and laughed at that old joke. An oldie but a goodie. Like Mark Foley. J/k. J/k. Ttyl!

My Weight Loss Solution

I realized today that I’m developing a bit of a stomach. Not that I lacked one before, but I’ve noticed a distinct pooch forming where there once was a cute little tummy. I’m not exactly doing the truffle shuffle just yet, but at least I no longer look like a young Mr. Burns. I do, however, resemble an albino African child, with my bloated stomach and my feeble arms. Plus I have an American sponsor that feeds me for just pennies a day.

I ordered a delicious Frosty treat from Wendy’s the other day (don’t worry, I got a small) and figured out why Houston and its neighboring Texan cities are so fat. The instant they handed me the Frosty it started to melt in the heat. Then it was a race against the clock as my ice cream cycled through the three stages of matter right before my eyes. I didn’t know sublimation was possible for tasty treats, but it was shifting from solid to a gas faster than I could spoon it into my hole. Then I got an ice cream headache so bad I forgot where I was.

But I decided I’m going to do something about it. No, not the Frosty fiasco, I mean the extra pounds. I need to shed some of this extra weight, if only for better drag and less wind resistance... it’s simple physics. But exercising makes me sweaty. And I’m nervosa that if I start in with the anorexia I might miss Big Macs as much as I miss the guy that says, “God bless you” at the drive-thru window. And bulimia makes my throat tickle. So I’ve settled on the one and only way to help me lose weight: tapeworm.

If I could somehow get a tapeworm all my problems would be solved. I could eat whatever I want. I’d be like a proud pregnant woman who jokes, “I’m eating for two now” while I’m stuffing my face with peanut butter and deep dish pizza. I think I’d make a great host too, offering it a cornucopia of decadent foods. It would be a perfect ‘give and take’ symbiotic relationship, just my new friend and I taking it all in.

The adventures of Jeff and Tapeworm would be us two laughing it up with our mouths full of Jujubes, shopping and gossiping like a coupla gals. And Tapeworm would say something funny and I would squirt milk out my noise and it would say, “Aw damn, that woulda been tasty.” Because tapeworms are silly like that.

Bugs

I have what the Orkin man would call a bit of a bug problem. It’s not an apocalyptic apartment take over, nor is it just one bug going for a jog across my floor. It’s somewhere in the creepy-filled center.

You see, my apartment isn’t invaded by a parade of crawlers. Instead, my place has become a bug graveyard. They are migrating to my floor to die. My apartment is Florida for all things insect.

Bugs are hiding in the corner knitting and playing canasta, then struggling to the center of my room to keel over. A family of dead grasshoppers washed up my back porch seeking freedom and citizenry. When I’m gone, there’s a Bingo mixer and a swarm of geriatric fruit flies reminisce about when they were young earlier that month.

I’m not greeted by a wagging puppy when I come home from work, but a Heaven’s Gate june bug reenactment. Just a row of 234 legs in the air. I’ve fostered some kind of deplorable, yet delicate ecosystem that only I can survive. The bad news is that I now have a dedicated kitchen utensil for flinging carcasses off the porch. The good news is I save a ton on bug spray by being a disgusting human being.

A spider broke its hip by my bed and lay there helplessly until its eight eyes glazed over. I put a silver dollar over its eyes (and entire body) and wept for lil’ Charlotte. I stood there like Wilbur in my literal pig sty and mourned for a moment before I side-armed the limp speck onto the sidewalk with my spatula.

Which One Doesn't Belong

I came to a realization earlier today that I just shouldn’t go in public. I have no business schmoozing or pretending to be social unless I’m safely surrounded by the cocoon that is my comfort zone.

I left the apartment today in business casual slacks and a nice polo shirt. I’m lookin’ mighty fine and I don’t care that I wore the same thing yesterday. I just had to run a few errands and then I was going right back to slouching around the living room until Monday morning.

On my way back, I’m cruising with my windows down, music up, and hair just blowing in the wind. But it was bright out. The sun was setting and my eyes were all squinty. So I root around in my console for some sunglasses and come up with nothing but a pair of oversized blue blockers. I could have gotten pulled over at that moment and confused every cop in the city. But I don’t care because I’m cruising.

Then I stop at a stop light. Note to self, don’t ever stop when you look like Maverick from Top Gun, only gayer. Just keep on going until you’re home or there’s a pileup.

I’m rocking out in full force. The music is cranked, and I am mouthing the words and thumb-drumming. Just an absolute embarrassment, but oblivious to anything past my scrawny arm on the window ledge.

Then I look over through my gigantic brown sunglasses and a beautiful woman is staring at me. I can’t tell if she wants to laugh right in my face or if she’s stunned that someone could be this embarrassing. I wish I could tell you I did something cool like wink or peer over my sweet sunglasses at her, but instead I just shrunk in my seat along with my self-esteem. I just reminded that lovely lady why she doesn’t date nerds.

I get home and I’m trudging back to my apartment, hanging my head in shame. And there’s a pool party going on. Some nobody is working the PA system outside for a bunch of my neighbors. Of course I don’t recognize a single one, because I’m a hermit, but I seemed to remember something about a dinner. Now I know I’m not comfortable at any event where the drinks are called refreshments, but my stomach is growling for free food.

Right away I know I’m overdressed. Let’s put it this way: I’m the only one wearing a shirt. Even grandma was wearing a one-piece bathing suit and looking at me quizzically. And on top of that I’m the only person my age there. The entire party is made up of kids up to the age of maybe fourteen and adults starting at thirty-five. And I show up in a Polo, age twenty-four, and ask for a plate so I can stuff my face with free hot dogs. But I can’t just grab food and scamper home, so I stand in the corner and watch the train wreck that is the limbo contest, complete with Pee-Wee-Herman music and awful commentary. Someone tried to hand me a raffle ticket, but I declined on principle. As soon as the last little kid fell on his coccyx I bolted before the start of the Macro/Polo tournament and the conga line.

I will never go in public again.

We're Gonna Be Friends Right?

Today I met my new sales team. I won’t say which company, but that’s not really important to the story. I basically just talk on the phone all day and as we say, “book the biz.” Well, no one really says that but me. And I say it to my mirror in the morning before I stuff a Pop-tart in my face and saunter off to work.

This whole week has been a week of training calls. Calls come in, I stammer a little bit, we work up a deal, and then they let me know when they’ll get back to me. And if I’m lucky they “hollah back” and I “book the biz.”

I’ve been doing well though. So well, in fact, that my upcoming manager has been raving about me to my new team, before I even get there. “You’re letting the new guy beat you?” and all that. Fantastic. I’m the kid in the class everyone hated. I’m that kid who raises his hand and says, “Um, miss? You forgot to assign homework.”

So today I’m moving from the kindergarten playroom to the big kids’ area. The training wheels are coming off. I get a desk and everything.

I sent an email to my manager asking where I should show up on Monday. Valid question right? He sends me an email back saying, “At your desk. I’ll have Bob show you where to go.” I am a zero. Of course my desk, where did I think he wanted me to report? “Yeah, how about you head on over to building eight, third floor conference room, and sit Indian style facing the corner until someone remembers you’re alive.”

Bob is my coach. Nice guy… I think, I can’t really read him. The guy has a permanent poker face. And he’s huge. He could crush my skill just by thinking about it. Needless to say I’m intimidated even now just knowing he’s out there somewhere, waiting.

He came in and I’m still on the phone, so he stood behind me. Now I’m nervous because I know he’s listening, but now he’s perched in perfect neck-snapping position. Then he sat down and stared through me. I finally stumbled to another non-close and he motioned for me to follow him to my desk.

I walked down the hall like a lap dog, slightly behind him. I’m a five foot nothing and he’s a six two beast-man who could very well have been Nitro on American Gladiators. I had to quicken my step to keep up with his lumbering stride, as I’m holding onto his out-turned pocket like a prison bitch.

Bob points to my desk. It’s kind of odd because it’s not an empty desk on the row, but it looks like it’s occupied with personal items and such strewn about. Then he says, “This was my desk. They’re making me move.” Apparently I’m displacing Bob the Skull Crusher to another row so that I can sit in this desk. The horror of the situation kept me from saying anything. But what would I have said? “Um yeah, I’ll probably put my snow globe here, where that trophy is… And I’ll probably pin a photo of my dog up here where there’s a picture of your wife…”

Then Bob paraded me around the cubes to the rest of my team. Remember, these are all people who know nothing about me other than that I’ve been making them look bad the past week. So they’re thrilled to meet me. Each one sarcastically acknowledged me, “Oh, you’re that Jeff? Yeah, heard a lot about you; had that big sale today… Greaaaaat.” And I nervously laughed, “Hehe, um yeah I got a little lucky. Nice to uh… finally meet you and everything. We’re gonna be friends right?”

My manager is cool though. He’s me in 20 years; an awkward nerd who sometimes has no idea what to say. Plus I have to like him, since he is the only one who seems to be fond of me on the new team.

But we’ll see how it all goes. It was really only the first week and I’ve been known to exaggerate. Or maybe I’ll just get promoted in a few months and won’t have to worry about it. I’ll ask him if the whole team should come in on Saturday.

"Why Can't I Quit You?"

I think it’s time to stop the Brokeback Mountain jokes. It was six months ago. Get over it.

Sure, it was mildly humorous at the time. What’s not hilarious about a guy named Jack… and Ennis… herding sheep.

White trash mongoloids are finally shaking the shock away from their limited mental capacity and responding with a slew of bad puns and lame parodies. Bareback Mountin’ wasn’t even chuckle-worthy the first time, now it’s downright retarded. The slow people are just now jumping on the bandwagon that rolled to a halt a long time ago. You know why it stopped? Because the horse that was pulling it died a while back and has since been beaten into an Elmer’s bottle somewhere.

Like the guy on Fox news who made an incredibly tasteful and not-at-all homophobic remark about the film… yesterday. I’m glad one of the hosts of the morning show Fox & Friends is up to date on what’s happening in the world. A very timely joke there, Julian. Way to be on top of things. And way to be professional.

If you’re gonna make a dated reference, at least make it funny. Because who doesn’t love a Hootie and the Blowfish joke? [Besides maybe Darius Rucker (Hootie sans the Blowfish.)] And you see what I did there? I mentioned the Blowfish and Brokeback Mountain in the same rant and didn’t stoop to an obvious crack about gay sex. The way Hootie would have wanted it.

It’s sad that some people need a tap on the shoulder and the hand slash in front of the throat motion. “Oh, we’re not doing that anymore? Damn. What are we going to do about Scary Movie 4?”

What’s also kind of depressing is that the big controversy distracted from what was a great year in film, including Best Picture “Crash,” which happens to be a film about tolerance, go figure.

Another film that was nominated for Best Picture many years ago is a movie called “Deliverance.” This is a film that includes a very disturbing sodomy scene that is selectively forgotten by most people and replaced by “that movie with the dueling banjos.” On that note, I wonder if Brokeback will ever be known as something other than “the gay cowboy movie.” Maybe “the movie where Heath Ledger tries, but ultimately fails at pulling off a country accent.”

I’m hoping this little rant nips the Brokeback jokes in the butt... And let’s bring on the “United 93” jokes.

Goldfish, Fish Sticks, and the One That Got Away

I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things on my shopping list. I had no idea that fate would also be on that list.

I wandered the isles, tossing things into my basket haphazardly and wrestling with the rogue cart with a shaky wheel. I stopped a moment to re-examine my list, crossing off "fate" and wondering how it got there. Then I looked up.

And there she was, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, standing among the cheeses. I stood there staring and holding a package of bun length ball park franks. Then our eyes met. The rest of the world seemed to melt away. Cheese melted into hot dogs, like a tasty treat for an afternoon snack or late evening meal. Stunned by her beauty, I dropped the delicious meat sticks into my cart next to the Lunchables and the Count Chocula. She smiled and turned, making her way to the Gouda. Our game of cat and incredibly attractive mouse had begun.

I paused for a moment to absorb the hilarity of her being a mouse in the cheese section.

She withdrew and I pursued. I backed away and she followed. I steered my cart into an adjacent aisle and pretended to read the instructions on a box of Pop Tarts. We caught each others glances through the Ramen noodles. I pretended to chug an entire gallon of milk and then fake throw up on myself and she laughed. And when she giggled it sounded like a bell ringing. Like the kind of bell that when it rings, an angel gets its wings. An angel like this one.

Finally I drew up close to her and whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Then, after she adjusted her hearing aid, I repeated my nothings. She swung her wheelchair around to face me. Again, I was amazed by her beauty. The dim fluorescent lighting brought out her eyes among the dark circles and the wrinkled bags. I told her my name and she had a coughing fit. She looked so cute bent over, gasping for air. After a minute or so, she managed to wheeze out a response. I said, "Ethel, that’s a beautiful name. So Ethel, can I call you some time?" She muttered something about a rotary phone and shakily jotted some numbers on a box of prunes. I happily placed the box in my cart. Not the big area, but the top section, where you strap in the toddlers. You know, for extra care.

She forgot who I was after that, so I sensed the conversation was over. I steered my cart away and headed towards the checkout. But, hoping for one last look, I peered over my shoulder. She was feebly trying to maneuver her cart, but had gotten it tangled up in a display for adult diapers. Our eyes met one last time and I mouthed "I’ll call you." And she yelled, "Huh?"

I never really spoke to her again, but to this day I remember that moment. The only contact I have with her is on my birthday, because every year she sends me a dollar.

Neat

I hate the word neat. Not the neat where things are tidy and straightened, but the kind of neat where it means good or interesting. You will never hear me say THAT version of neat, ever. I might say “bad ass” or “totally rad,” but never “neat.”

If I ever say the word neat, you should beat me up immediately. Kick my ass ASAP.

In fact, I have a special set of nun chucks in the event of such a mistake. They’re labeled with the word “neat.” Not the ones on the middle shelf, those are for every day use, but the nun chucks on the top shelf are locked away for such an occasion. You’ll know them because written below it says, “In case of ‘neat,’ break glass.” Smash it. Grab em. Beat me. Especially over the head because I don’t want to remember ever uttering the word. If I happen to slip into any sort of coma, pull the plug STAT. My eulogy will read, “Died suddenly when inexplicably said the word ‘neat.’” My family will understand.

Here’s the kind of guy that would say “neat:”
He’s holding hands with his newly wed wife, and they’re strolling along in the park, smiling brightly because they just finished a duet of “I got you babe” together. And they’re frolicking among the flowers and squirrels and skipping arm and arm.
And the wife looks over at him and says, “Some day when we have kids—.”
“Timmy and Sarah,” he interrupts lovingly.
“Yes, little Timmy and Sarah. We’ll have to bring them to this park.”
And he turns to her and says, “That would be neat.”

I mean, come on, the guy needs to be nun chucked to death. Ninjas should catapult from nearby bushes and trees and other shrubbery, nun chucks flailing. Striking blow after blow, they beat the neat out of him. Even Chuck Norris shows up and kicks him a little. That would be neat.

Stupid Wright Brothers...

This weekend I took a trip. I flew to Colorado, also known as “The Square State.” Let me tell you about it. Come with me, we’ll take our own little trip. Down memory lane.

Like a good little citizen, I showed up early. I got my tickets from the kiosk, which is a funny word to say, and headed towards my gate.

The security checkpoint for me is like one big magic trick. I eyed the security checkpoint like an escape artist, planning the right time to regurgitate the key and free myself from their handcuffs. Ironically, though, it’s usually the key that sets off the metal detector...

First, I mentioned to the closest security professional, “Hey, uhh, my leg is made almost entirely of metal. I will set off the detector, and I won’t be using any wires or mirrors.”

Luckily this particular trick does not require the use of a white Bengal tiger.

I dejectedly trudged through the gate, leading me into the grey area beyond the fourth amendment. I gestured in a “There you have it, folks” manner when it lit up like a Christmas tree. Though, in retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best time to pull a quarter from behind his ear and say, “I see someone else is hiding something!”

I was herded into a waiting pen in the center with all the other potential national security threats. People made of significantly less metal passed by, looking at me and judging, “I wonder what he did.” I just smiled and mouthed, “Watch your back.”

Standing there inside in the fortress of impenetrable security tape, I realized I was being made an example. I was the sacrificial lamb today at Bush Intercontinental Airport. And if they had to saw me in half here in the terminal as an offering to the gods, they would. So when the approaching guard put on rubber gloves, I thought to myself, “That is not a good sign.”

The guard was nice though, only giving me two cavity searches, instead of the standard three. He found a bouquet of flowers and a string of colored handkerchiefs.

He did, however, tug repeatedly on my belt; peering down to see what else I was packing. I panicked a moment… trying to remember if I had left the white dove at home. Now would not be a good time for little Andy to fly the coop. Then I thought, “Maybe the guard sees his card down there,” silently hoping it wasn’t the kings of hearts.
I ended up just doing the “Jedi mind” trick so I could be on my way.


Then it was time to get on the plane, where all my phobias collided and jockeyed for position as the cause of my approaching anxiety attack. Fear of heights. Fear of small spaces. Fear of being scared. Fear of dying. And fear of dying before I find out what the hell is going on with that show Lost.

I lucked out too because the seat on one side of me was empty. And on the other side of the aisle was a hot girl. So in the event that the plane did decide to fall from the sky, she would be there for those last few moments of passion. That’s how I get women to make out with me. I wait until a plane is crashing and she says, “Oh, what the hell.”

Plus the guy in front of me realized he was seated next to a woman and her litter of children and immediately bailed. For all I know he ‘chuted out shortly after takeoff. I don’t care if you’re Mr. Rogers, Ned Flanders wouldn’t want any par-diddly-art of that mess.

I wanna thank Apple for sponsoring my little trip to Colorado this weekend. Sweet sweet iPod provided me a soundtrack to the cruel human experiment that is air travel. I sat there the full two hours with my earpieces in and my crash helmet on (which looks remarkably similar to a beer helmet) sipping Red Bull from convenient tubes, rockin’ out to Aerosmith. I know what you’re thinking, “Aerosmith? What’re you, thirty-two and a half?” Hey, the shuffle feature felt it was appropriate, ok?

Then the flight attendants got up front and did their little song and dance. It was like a parade of bad neckwear, all ascots and scarves. Confetti rained down from the ceiling as Betsy motioned to the emergency exits for her one thousandth time. They even reminded us that our seat cushions serve as flotation devices. But let’s be honest, if we had crashed into anything, it would have been a mountain. Pressing the ass prints of thousands of other passengers to your face isn’t gonna help when you’re performing a nose dive at 500 mph into the beautiful Rocky Mountains. Says it right there on the safety card.

Then, not to be outdone, the pilot gets on the horn and starts taking us through his whole morning. I swear they require a meteorology class in flight school, because he was throwing out all kinds of wind speeds and barometric pressures. And he’s jibber jabbering about the flight plan. “We’re going to swing by Dallas. Might pass over Oklahoma…” This is a non-stop flight to Denver, not the local tour down Hollywood Blvd. I don’t need you taking your eye off the controls so you can point out where Katie Holmes lost her damn mind.

I wonder if the captain of the space shuttle gives them a little run down of what’s going up. “Ok, today we’re going to be exiting the Earth’s atmosphere. I’m going to be taking you straight up. We might experience a little turbulence, but that’s just the rockets detaching themselves. Aaaand it looks like clear skies in space. Thank you for flying with NASA.”

“We are experiencing turbulence…” Experiencing. Like that little euphemism is going to ease your anxiety about being in a flying bus that’s shaking you like the British nanny.

Then the steward-attendants came by with the food cart, both of them full of creepy enthusiasm only Bob Ross could muster. (Not to mention I took a glancing blow from the cart that may affect my ERA numbers in fantasy baseball.) She leans over, her scarf tickling my ear, “Would you like something to drink?” I just kind of gave her the none-for-me-thanks head shake when I really want to say, “No way, if I have that thimble of soda I’ll be up all night.” But I was sorry. I should have reconsidered. What was I thinking? Because after I finished my two pretzels, I was parched.

And then it was over. We took off, we did the safety hokey pokey, we heard a cute story from the pilot, and we had snacks. It’s like kindergarten for grown-ups.

As we landed, all I could think about was the plane a few weeks ago that landed with the front tire completely engulfed in flames. I closed my eyes and hoped my last words weren’t going to be, “Do I have to take off my shoes?”

The pilot hadn’t started drinking yet, so we landed safe and sound. And there it was. The moving walkway. I would pay 10 tickets at the local fair for this ride. I just started speed walking. I felt like the Six Million Dollar Man, reconstructed to walk faster than any man has ever walked. I was high-fiving people as we zoomed by. I’m running in place in slow motion, confusing the hell out of toddlers. If I’m ever rich, all the floors in my mansion will be conveyor belts. One big remote and you can stand perfectly still and just glide your way to the can.

I got off the very long treadmill and I almost got run down by a transport vehicle. I was this close to being road kill in the middle of a hallway ‘cause some granny said step on it. I made it all this way, survived the flight, only to nearly get run down by a golf cart on my way to the escalator. Luckily I saw it coming, so I grabbed the nearest hot chick and we just started making out. Guard got so confused that he swerved and ran over a terrorist. I was awarded the Medal of Accidental Honor. I pinned it on my shirt next to my plastic pilot wings.

I Survived Hurricane Rita and All I Got Was This Lousy Hangover

The sun rose on another glorious morning, breaking in a new day. I thought to myself, “It’s great to be alive,” as I sat comfortably with a smile on my face. Our luxury vehicle purred as it idled along with hundreds of its closest friends on FM 529. We hadn’t moved in over an hour, but it was nice. It gave me a chance to reflect.

Hurricane Rita was on its way to Houston. Mother Nature had blessed it with a little bit of wind, and since it was in the northern hemisphere, it spun clockwise. It was putting on quite the show in the gulf, but was making its way into the crowd to shake some hands. At first I was worried, but I was assured by the TV, radio, President, mayor, governor, FEMA, Red Cross, National Guard, and various weather experts that everything was going to be ok. They told me that there was no need for panic, as they stood out of harm’s way, putting their own safety before the lure of the story.

I had complete control of the dog, which was as calm as my mother was about a pet on her leather seats. I chuckled to myself as passengers took turns using the bathroom at the nearest gas station without fear of missing their ride.

Other cars began to use the turn lane and the shoulder to pass us, but I just figured they were more important and their needs superseded my own. Some might have considered their actions unethical or exploitation of more patient motorists. I, however, knew that the emergency situation affected them more, and the best I could do would be to sit quietly and wave with all five of my fingers. After all, in these times of crisis, we have to band together and help each other out.

And as the Mexican Americans flew by, sitting inside with ten or more of their friends and family, I thought to myself, “Santa Anna would be proud.” He used to always say, “Safety in numbers.” And “there’s always time for a nap.”

One lane of outbound traffic gave way to two, which gave birth to four, which expanded to five. Soon, six lanes of traffic headed west, while any other cars had a fun game of dodging to play with the fleeing Mack trucks. Packed neatly along a country road, as cars swerved on either side us, I thought of rainbows and gum drops and candy cane cities.

A clean convoy of Camry’s weaved its way through the crowd, making clever use of the extra “courtesy” lanes and each other to further themselves in the line. I made a mental note of it in case I was ever evacuating from a city of millions again. A shirtless man bounced along the other side of the car. I remarked about the haste of such a fat city, and we all laughed and laughed.

As we sped along at a cool 15 mph, we sang songs and feasted on the endless supply of snack foods and diet soda. A few times I got out and stretched my legs, just to keep the blood flowing. We all managed to stay perfectly calm, maintaining a collected manner in order to get through the ordeal the best we could. Once or twice we thought of turning around, but pressed on, inspired by Chance and Shadow in the family classic Homeward Bound.

After twelve hours of bonding, we reached our destination, uniting the family once again. I felt like one of the Planeteers, but I had left my heart ring at home and asked if we could go back for it.

During the weekend, as the hurricane tiptoed over the sleeping city, I stayed with a friend in a town that usually takes an hour to get to. Our hands tired after too much patty cake, so we wondered what to do. That reminded us of Dr. Seuss's “The Cat in the Hat,” which we took turns reading to each other. Then, out of options, we imbibed copious amounts of alcohol. (Which means we drank a shitload.)

The day after the storm, the sun rose on another glorious morning, breaking in the new day. So we hopped back in the car, ready to do it all over again.