Road Trip!

Somebody who I don't know died, so I have to drive to Yellow Springs, Ohio this weekend.

Don't panic: Dave Chappelle is not dead; neither am I stalking him.

You might have guessed that this is not the best time for me to be taking off work, but it can't be avoided. To minimize the damage, I'll be working until 2 or 3 pm on Saturday, then driving to Ohio. I'll be driving back Monday evening, and hopefully I'll be back home by 2 or 3 am Tuesday morning.

Upper management took the news pretty well. He keeps a defibrillator in his office, behind a sign that says "In case of an employee having a life, break glass," he picked up the hammer while I was telling him, but I didn't actually hear the glass break until I'd run away. That was kind of him.

Anyway. A roadtrip can't help but be awesome, right? You got your Kerouac-call-of-the-open-roadtrip or your fratboys-trying-to-bag-chicks-and-avoiding-their-obvious-desire-to-bang-each-other-in-the-middle-of-the-roadtrip models to choose from. To be honest, though, I never saw Road Trip. And I tried to read Kerouac, but after a few pages, cleaning the oven seemed like a more fun time.

Still, there's a road, there's a trip: how hard can it be? There must be fifty rest stops between here and Western Ohio. That means fifty potential blowjobs. Each way. But I can't help wondering: a) is that going to increase my travel time (google maps doesn't have a radio button for "recalculate without blowjobs"), and b) is wearing my "Pitcher" t-shirt too obvious?

Couple of problems, though. First, I'll be traveling with EFU, and "Dad, didn't you stop at the rest stop twenty miles back? And why are you looking so flushed?" are questions that I don't want to answer more than three or four times in any given eight hours.

And worse, I'm just not that good at sex in public places. It is, no doubt, very kind of perfect strangers to want to sap my precious bodily fluids give me pleasure before we've been properly introduced, and the idea is extremely exciting, but in practice, I'm too nervous to whip it out and let them have to. There are other things I'd be happier to do, but in my experience, when a guy taps his foot in the stall next to yours, he very rarely wants to make out. Or even let you chew on his nipples for a while.

Everyone's in such a hurry these days. Here's a thought: since you know who now objects to the term McJob, let's give that up. In exchange, we'll call the rest area quickie the McBlowjob. Brilliant, right? Imagine the drive-thru possibilities! Billions and billions served! Hang on a sec while I call my intellectual property lawyer, will ya?

Anyway, at least EFU has some pretty good music in her iPod, and despite the fact that she's eighteen now, she still hasn't figured out that she's supposed to hate me during her teen years. And since, starting this September, she'll be living far away from home (possibly even in Western Ohio), she'll have to hate me via email, or only during summer vacation. In less than two years, she'll be twenty, and after that, if she wants to hate me, I'll be all "as if, beeatch! You had your chance when you were a teenager! Get over your wicked young adult self!" Or, you know, words to that effect. I feel bad that she might miss her chance, but I am comforted by the knowledge that at least she hates her mother.

So the drive (if I don't fall asleep and end up starring in one of those drivers' ed movies) will be pleasant. And I'll have a day and a half to kill while EFU does whatever it is she's doing there. I'm beginning to wonder about that whole I-don't-want-or-need-a-laptop stance I've been taking: if I had one, I could probably hunt up men on the Internet. But I don't, so I'll probably spend all of Sunday and most of Monday hanging around the Holiday Inn, sleeping and jerking off.

Sweet.