Westbound

We've all bought shit we regret, like that apple peeler/corer/juicer combination thing that somehow winds up in the toolbox. Our doom is usually charted around the intersection of late night infomercials and Jim Beam. My friend Mark was particularly renowned for drunk dialing with his credit card, and the string of odd-shaped boxes and strange sounds that flowed into and seeped out of his house. Drinking with him one night I spotted a Total Gym in the corner. Sadly, Christie Brinkley was nowhere to be found, but we had a helluva time drinking and doing 45 degree pull-ups. Well, a helluva five minutes anyway, then he got a finger stuck in a pulley (remember kids, alcohol and machinery don't mix). That brought about the violent end of the Total Gym. Apparently they can stand up to Chuck Norris, but not a 160 pound drunk white kid from suburbia. That's not saying much about something...

The Girl's Gone Wild DVD set showed up one disk at a time in his mailbox, though he had no recollection of placing the order. It took about ten minutes for that to get old. So, too, came a set of Ginsu knives, some spray-on chrome, a rubber broom - not the kind of shit you want to arm a mischievous drunk with.

For my part I bought an Egg Wave. Remember that trash from about six years ago? They were big egg-shaped, white and yellow vessels for the microwaving of eggs - nearly as useful as tits on a fish. About the time my king hell hangover abated my "super happy economy rush package" arrived directly from some sweatshop in Taiwan, and there they were: four plastic eggs. For the microwaving of eggs. Redundancy three times, and an ugly charge on the credit card. So I did what any one else would do: I threw one across the room, kicked another, and filled a third with Gummi Bears. I melted that shit into a volcanic sludge of boiling sugar - it was pretty cool. Pour that into an ice cube tray and freeze it, and you get ginormous gummi cubes. I called up a girl I knew, exploited her sweet tooth, and we spent about a week having sex and melting shit. Good times.

But through all the drunk dialing misadventures that aren't noteworthy, the Egg Wave and trash I don't recall, it wasn't until just the other day that I upped the ante and crossed a line. Drunk and bored, all the impressionable women hiding behind deadbolts and Mace cans, I jumped on the internet and clicked aimlessly. Then I landed on Orbitz. Don't do that. Not while you're drunk, anyway, and I doubt it's advisable in any other chemically enhanced condition.
I have a friend in Seattle. She's really hot, and at last check, single. Now to be fair, she has a great personality and advanced science degrees from an Ivy League institution...and also to be fair, she has ginormous boobs. So I sat there, bobbing and weaving though sitting still, staring at roundtrip coast-to-coast flights to Seattle and back. The screen flashed a few times, and I passed out on my desk. When I woke up an hour later with a crease in my forehead and a crick in my neck I moved the mouse and the screen popped back to life: "Order Confirmed."

So, apparently, I'm going to Seattle. This week. That Eggwave has nothing on a $300 set of plane tickets bought at 2am.

Anyone know of a good place for a sick fuck and a classy lady to get a beer? Or a nice bomb shelter I can hide out in if the shit hits the fan when I...uh...just show up?

Westward, hoe!