Me: FLORIDA!!!?
Marc: Yeah, why? Don't you LIKE Florida? Me: Anger increasing, urge to kill, rising... Marc: What? I don't understand your problem here. Me: Do you realize that I just spent about all my money on gas and
drove like 100mph for over 5000 miles to get here? Marc: So you want me to drive then? I'm lost here, help
me out... Me: Why couldn't you just drive yourself to Florida? You have
a car. Marc: I don't want to put that kind of mileage on my
car, you freak. Me: but it's alright for me, is that it? Marc: I don't know what you want from me. I let you ride
my scooter, you ingrate. Me: I hate your scooter now. There's no way that I can
ever like your scooter from now on. Marc: I have two scooters. You can't hate them
both. Me: I hate each of them double. I have within me at least
four scooters worth of hatred. Marc: Maybe if you spent more time with them. Let's put
them up in the front with us. Me: I'm going to put you in the back with them. Marc: You're not doing anything interesting. I'm providing
you with interest. Just drive, dude. Me: (Nearly inaudible grumbles and teeth grindings) Marc: Are you still mad at me? Me: I
HAVEN'T EVEN UNLOCKED THE DOORS YET! Marc: I'm SORRY! ...Jackass... Me: That's alright. ...Jackass...
Despite my initial
aggression, I have to admit that for the beginning leg of the beginning
leg of our journey, I was having a pretty good time. The wind was running
through our windows, scattering all of my parking tickets across the
Nevada desert, giving us that "windblown" look that only millionaires
with those big convertible caddies with the bullhorns on the front get.
We owned the desert. We made a game of trying to spot broken down pickup
trucks with voluptuous-yet-mechanically-retarded damsels-in-distress.
We made a game where we tried to make up game names with lots of hyphens
in the titles. We even made a game of seeing how many miles the car
could tow us on our scooters - with no one at the wheel - before I'd
finally panic and run back up to steer it back onto the road. Things
were going extremely well, until...
Marc:
I think the air-conditioning gave out on us dude. Me: Oh my God, we're gonna die out here. Marc: Maybe a hose just came loose or something. Me: Yeah,
maybe it was all the pressure that built up from you gluing
the vents shut! Marc: Dude. That was an accident, and you
know it. Me: Yeah, so are you. How did you glue three of my vents shut? Marc: I spilled, it just kind of ran from vent to vent. Me: One of the vents is in the back seat! Marc: I know. "Physics..." What can you do,
right? Me: What did you even need to glue in the first place? Marc: Nothing. I was just bored.
As our anger, fear, and aggression increased, I became aware of certain
phrases that no longer held to the strict codes of etiquette that normally
make Marc who he is. After another day of listening to his political
rants, I was able to fashion a makeshift translation decoder wheel.
Call it my good-will gesture at keeping our lines of communication open,
as the rest of our slow-roasted bodies and minds shut down. It occurred
to me that such a device would be suitable for posting on the web in
javascript form, and so here it is. Just make a sentence out of the
three boxes on the left, and the translator will show you the full sentence
on the right, followed by a crude translation of it into what I like
to call "Pidgin Angst," or rather: "Marc, when he's
tired, and angry, and trapped in a blazing hot car in the middle of
the desert." If for some reason your computer doesn't understand
how to make this novelty work, just find another computer that will
work. Computers are everywhere. I don't wanna hear that you can't
find a good one somewhere. You're not trying hard enough.
Me: The
next rest stop we come to, I'm getting you a travel bingo set. Marc: Ooh, the "Evil Dead" Edition!? Me: They make "Evil Dead" travel bingo? Marc: Yeah, it rocks! Me: How would such a thing work? Marc: Okay, you get a bingo board with phrases from the
movies in them. Me: ...I'm with you so far... Marc: Then you pick a phrase and scream it at passing
cars and trucks. Me: And how do you get the square? Marc: According to the directions, they must "Smile,
honk, nod, or wave." Me: And you don't get it if? Marc: They "ignore you, flip you off, flip their
car or truck, or spit at you." Me: Actually that sounds really cool. This is the last rest stop
for the next 200 miles. Marc: "Evil Dead" travel bingo, you are within
my reach at last.
"Evil Dead" travel bingo proved to be entirely pointless on
a single-lane highway that stretched endlessly without a single other
car to shout phrases to. Several miles later Marc would lose most of
the game pieces down the only remaining open vent anyway... And once
we realized that the boards themselves sort of tasted like chocolate,
it wasn't long before the entire game was either in our bellies, in
my air conditioning, or like my speeding tickets, decorating the floors
of the Nevada wastelands.
Rummaging through
my glove compartment for ice cubes (Marc and I were losing it pretty
rapidly), we came upon a letter that I forgot I had received but a few
weeks prior to this misadventure. It was my Ford recall notice, stating
that the 2000 Ford Focus was designed (intentionally or not, I forget)
with something akin to an explosive bolt mechanism on the left, rear
wheel assembly. I kid you not. You may call Ford and ask them all about
this oversight on their part. If you do, don't forget to bring up the
whole Firestone Tire incident, too. They hate that.
So yes, you're expecting
it, and given the polling and the test audiences reactions and comments
for this feature, I have to give it to you.
My left rear wheel explosively
removed itself from its suicidal little assembly, and round and around
we goes. Where did we stop? Nobody knows, for our map had long since
blown out the window. But I tell you, there's a certain "humbling"
that comes from being thrown around like a rag doll in the jaws of an
overzealous Border Collie. Enlightenment surrounded us, calming us and
telling us that all would be alright, once everything had scabbed over...
Marc: Gary, I can't feel my legs... and my arms... they
feel like my legs... Me: I understand. For me, it's my sense of sight that seems to
have been affected. Marc: And so, which way to we proceed from here? Me: Well, first of all, which way is up, like right now? Marc: I think it's below us. Me: That makes sense, given where the sky seems to be. Marc: Exactly, opposite where the ground is? Me: Indeed Marcus. Do you perchance think anyone shall pass by
and offer their assistance? Marc: I believe it does indeed seem a rather foolish
line of thinking to hope so. Me: And we're probably far too small to have shown up as a significant
explosion on radar..." Marc: True...
Me: Ah. I give it up then. (Spits a chunk of windshield from
his mouth) Marc: Indubitably. So then, what is our alternative, given
that no help shall come to us? Me: I can think of only one thing that may save us at this, our
darkest hour. Marc: Evil Dead bingo?
