Posts Tagged ‘Travel’

This! Is! Alaska!

July 8, 2008

Fishing for crabs in the Bering Sea, under the craziest conditions possible by nature. Are you fucking kidding me? This Deadliest Catch show clearly exhibits the indomitable norseman in the hearts of all Alaskans. And its even got Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive” as its theme song; how clever is that!

I appreciate the shows display of honest heroism. The call of the wild beckons, but these days, who answers? These crazy bearded decedents of Thor, that’s who. While the other 49 states wait in line for Taco Bell, these warriors endure nearly freezing to death for 13 hours a day. While getting pelted with ice cold seawater. And nearly falling overboard every five minutes with the rough waves pushing their ship towards capsizing. These guys should have iron helmets and shields with dragons on them.

How many people do you know in your life that could possibly be an Alaskan King Crab fisherman? I myself only know a select handful of people who could rise to the epic call of the Flokennhorne (which may or may not be an actual instrument used to signify bravery). I don’t even believe that I, the most grandiose, most promixa centauri of all living humanity could answer the awe-inspiring Flokennhorne summons (as I believe DWC [Drinking While Crabfishing] is a misdemeanor in waters governed by Alaska). Think about that next time you’re snuggling up with your douchenozzle boyfriend Johnny after a rollicking six minutes of boisterously unpleasant sexual intercourse, sister. Would Johnny be scraping ice off his ballsack in the middle of the perfect storm, laughing in death’s face like a swashbuckling maverick with nothing to lose?! The answer is no, Claire. That’s also the answer to “is he special?”, “should a give my heart to this man?”, and “if we decided to get married, do you think he’d stop selling ecstasy?”

As Thinker St. James, a man who thinks more highly of himself than he does of most major world leaders, I tip my feathered bowler cap to the men, men and younger men of the USS Kickass: The Alaskan King Crab fishermen.

Alaska. I wonder what it’s like in Alaska. All I know of Alaska is The Iditarod (tracked that bitch in 5th grade; big ups to Ms. Johnson’s class). Oh, and hockey. And those crazy remote research facilities that serve some sort of geological purpose. It’d be nice to be in one of those little bases, but have it be a totally sweet pad with a fireplace and a polar bearskin rug. You’d have to have a hot research assistant though; the Alaskan tundra is a hard place to pick up chicks, I’ve heard.

Alaska also has periods of time where it is complete darkness for months at a time (something I learned from Steve Niles). I wonder if there are seasonal nightclubs that are open 24-hours during those times. People could be dancing to disco music at four o’clock in the afternoon! Isn’t that a world we’ve all dreamed about?

Mystery, Alaska: that’s like a movie, right?

And I’ve also heard that there is a lot of marijuana in Alaska, yet they still voted against the framework of legalization. Being a stoner in Alaska must be terrible: leaving a lighter in your car results in a 10-layer suit of freeze-resistant clothing. And no pot dealer is taking out the snowmobile at two in morning to go deliver an eighth of kush to you across a twelve-mile frozen lake. Though they are neighbors with those crazy Canadians and their scientifically modified hyperweed, so who knows! That’s Alaska for ya, baby.

I’d like to end this post by saying Alaska. Fuck Yeah. Today!

Advertisements

Traffic

April 16, 2008

The fact that you are reading this means that I have already called the police. I notified them that there was an incident of child molestation I have knowledge about, and that something should be done. I only wrote this article before actually calling the police because…well, you see, this intro was not originally a part of this article. In fact, when I began writing this article, I had no intentions of calling the police. I had no reason to call the police. That’s because I didn’t know then what I know now. But by the time I finished this article, I knew. Now, why would I take the time to type this intro then, if I in fact had perfect knowledge of the heinous crimes that were being committed? Well, I’m merely reassuring myself that this is in fact the case. But now that I’ve read over this several times, given it a week to mull over, and typed out this intro, I’m definitely about 99% certain that after writing this intro and making this post, I should pick up the phone and call the police (after I have a short shower, and maybe some Cheese Nips) to let them know that the entire population of Korea are in fact a lousy bunch of child molesters.

Perhaps I should explain. I’ll start from the beginning. Or rather, I started from the beginning. Seeing as I wrote this before this intro (seriously, I totally wrote it beforehand). Anyways, here you go:

Today, I was driving home from Orange County to Corona. If you know what that means in terms of driving on a Friday afternoon (editorial note: I wrote this on a Friday, I swear), then you know exactly what this article is going to be about. If you don’t know, well you probably could have figured it out from the blatant implication made in that last sentence. Provided you are an idiot (which you probably are) and you still don’t know what I’m talking about, what I’m trying to say is, there was a fucking lot of traffic. Far too much traffic. Enough traffic to make you scream. Enough traffic to drive a man off the deep end. Enough traffic to force a man to take the prescription pills sitting in his glove compartment in order to put himself out of his misery. Don’t worry, I didn’t. Well, I did, but there were only four pills left in the bottle (I was on my way to refill my prescription ironically), so all it seemed to do was make me rather drowsy. This normally would have some effect on my driving, but on a day like today, it didn’t matter. As I inched along I-91, losing confidence in my ability to reach my destination before nightfall with every second, I realized something. I had been following the same exact delivery truck for one hour. Through the haze in my vision caused by the pills, mixed with the fact the air conditioner was blowing my hair all around my face (it was 110 degrees out, which didn’t make things any better), I made out the name of the company on the back of the truck, as if I hadn’t memorized it by heart at this point: Hankook Performance Tires.

I know nothing about Hankook Performance Tires. My initial thought was that it could be some small company exclusive to the west coast. Conveniently, my ten year old laptop computer was sitting right next to me in the passenger seat. Taking my hands off the wheel (I’d already turned on the parking break 3 minutes prior), I booted up the laptop. Once the 256 megahertz processor finally finished booting, I removed the parking break so that I could scoot up about an inch on the road, not wanting to inadvertently lose my place in line. Back to the laptop, I opened up firefox, and searched for “Hankook” in the convenient wikipedia search bar on the upper right hand corner of the browser. I was taken to the Hankook Tire page. Apparently Hankook is “the seventh largest tire company in the world” and is based in Seoul, South Korea. Skimming the page, I was trying to find something having to do with their credibility, namely that it was bad, as by this point the haze of drowsiness mixed with my utter hatred for whatever happened to be in my way for all this time had completely convinced me that there has never been a form of evil more malicious than that of Hankook Performance Tires. “Eh, blah blah blah, exports to US, uh huh, blah blah, increasing notoriety, mmhmm, bias-ply protection, ok ok, hmmmm……AH HA!” I had found it! The section entitled “Hankook Controversy In Hungaria” did it. I was most certain these foul men were none other than war-mongers, genocidal maniacs operating in secret to destroy the Hungarian people. Assholes.

Now, despite the fact that Hungary really seems to contribute nothing to the world in general, and that it’s a relatively small, insignificant country, if a bit well known, mass genocide is still just not right. Closing the laptop, I could only shake my fist at the Hankook truck driver, though he was unable to see me. At least I could assume so, since “if you can’t see me I can’t see you” was written on his mirror. For all I knew though, I might not have been able to see his face all that way in the mirror through the hairy, hazy, mess in my eyes. Though looking back, he probably couldn’t see me, since I was actually able to read that writing on the mirror, but could not see him. Anyways, that’s when a thought dawned on me. “Oh my God,” I thought. “This truck driver must not know what he’s supporting. They wouldn’t just throw the main proprietors of this international genocide into the roads of America to do their dirty work.” Of course, by this point it was international, and definitely not limited to simply Hungary. Hungary was just a start. They were building their way up. You’ve got to start small, but once you get a taste of it, you can’t stop. You’ve got to kill more and more until everyone around you is dead, or you’re dead. And even if you’re dead, you may have a slight chance at becoming reanimated, and if I had so much as five seconds as a fucking zombie in this world, oh man, I’d kill every last human, I swear. Oh, fuck. Anyways.

I was now determined to tell this man exactly what he was completely unaware of. He was working for an international crime syndicate, bent on world domination and the destruction of the human species. The poor fucking tool. He had no clue. In the traffic, it was possible to get out of your car for a few minutes, perhaps if you needed a smoke, or maybe a bong hit, or perhaps a bottle of gin. Hell, I saw a guy sitting on his roof shooting up. Anyways, after I’d finished the bottle of gin, I hobbled drunkenly over to the high-rised truck and pounded on the door. I shouted at the driver that he had to listen to me, and that what I had to say was very important. I told him about his affiliation with the crime syndicate. Very clearly, I several times repeated “MAAAN, you gotta get OUT of this maaaaan….you’re killing people maaaaan!” He never responded. It was just as I feared. The man did not speak a word of English. Curses, foiled. I was determined though. I went back to my car and pulled the laptop out again. The browser was still on the Hankook page. I glanced at the top, where it said they were based in Korea. “Of course,” I thought. “Fucking Il Kong Jim and those fucking Koreans. They deliberately employed people who don’t speak my language so I couldn’t tell them about the unspeakable evils I found on the internet. It must suck to be a Mexican living in Korea. You’re not allowed to use the internet to find out how your country is killing everybody off, and you’re not allowed to learn English. Hell, they probably teach you Japanese or some shit. Fucking assholes” It went just like that. With the quotes and everything.

By this point, I had forgotten that my original intent on going to the car was in fact to find an online translator, so that I could give this man a rough description of what I was trying to say. Instead, I absentmindedly clicked my favorites toolbar, immediately hovered my mouse over to my favorite porn site (which at the time is Tube8, for all those interested), and sitting there in the middle of traffic (in my car at least), I jerked off to a 30-something woman pleasuring herself with a cucumber. It was not my most dignified moment. Then again, it was not my most level-minded moment. If I had had more fucking pills with me, it wouldn’t have even been a moment of any kind for me. Fucking ay…..God dammit! I just remembered, I never did refill my prescription. Fuck! Well, I’ll stop by the store on the way home from Orange County tomorrow and do it.

So now I sit here. Utterly pissed off at Jim Long Dong Kil and the Korean Mafia crime syndicate, bent on universal genocide and a world of tears. Well, metaphorically a world of tears. There won’t actually be any real tears, since everyone will be dead. Last time I checked, corpses don’t cry, and trust me on this, I’ve seen Dawn Of The Dead 54 times. Man, those God damn Communists. Shit, they’re probably Communists too, yeah. Wait a minute…..waaaiiiit a minute! I never saw that man. Holy shit. I know exactly what’s going on now! (editorial note: you see? This is where I peace it all together; I really am a fucking genius) That man in the truck wasn’t a fucking man! I couldn’t see him through that raised up window because he was too SHORT to be a man! He was…..he was a kid! OH MY GOD! Those fucking Korean Communist, anarchist, fucking anti-Christ Mafia members are employing MEXICAN CHILDREN to drive their tires to their malicious, vile, havock-causing destinations! Why didn’t I see it before! But wait. Children can’t deliver tires in a delivery truck…..they have no job experience. So….they must be….oh my God….oh my God, oh my God. Shit! They’re sending these kids in these trucks to places all over the US, thinking they’re going to fucking Disneyland or something (those poor, underprivileged, Mexican kids. We Californians are the only ones in the world who get to enjoy Disneyland. And they don’t let you in if you speak Japanese). When in reality, they’re being sent to their death! Not just their death, but to MOLESTATION! OH MY GOD! THOSE FILTHY KOREANS ARE MOLESTING CHILDREN!

FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! I’ve gotta call the police on this. Shit. Shit. Shit. Ok, I’m gonna think it over for a bit, finish this post, and then I’m going to call the police! God damn filthy Korean assholes!

Ah man, maybe I’ll take a shower or something and get some cheese nips beforehand actually. Fucking Koreans. Making me all stressed out and shit. I need to relax for a bit man. Fuckin…..fuckin shit man.