The Land of Air Mattresses

I have traveled long and far, on roads high and low (physical and metaphorical) looking for my promise land.  Ladies, gentlemen, and hermaphrodites, after a treacherous journey, I have arrived at the golden gates.  The trip was long, hard, and not easy to swallow: kind of like my…never mind.

Three weeks ago, I left Ohio with nothing but my clothes, a twelve in Snake Eyes figure (with two stun grenades), and of course, a queen-sized air mattress.  My two roommates, Chewbacca and Kevin Steele, and myself saw this driving expedition as a parallel those who made great treks before us: Lewis & Clark, the gold rushers of 1849, or as I prefer, the three little pigs (and not the pussy-ass version where they all survive; no, the brutal, death ridden one I grew to love).  To avoid any problems, we thoroughly researched our trip with countless viewings of National Lampoon’s Vacation, and hours of playing The Oregon Trail.  Let me tell you, it worked.  Not once did we break down in the desert; not once did wild Indians circle our wagons; and not once did our oxen drown fording a river.  There were also plenty of buffalo to hunt.

Along the way, we made sure to make some monumental stops; by monumental, I mean most affordable based on our discount Ramada Inn locations.  There was the St. Louis half oval, great for some quick pull ups:

Getting bombed in Oklahoma City (not Bud Light in picture):

Albuquerque, New Mexico.  No picture, so here’s some dinosaurs:

And, who could forget almost falling into the largest natural hole (which may be the crater of a meteorite that killed those very dinos, RIP), that decided to make people pay to see?

Finally, California.  Thanks to the grace of my family, we were able to avoid living in squalor, and instead be treated like kings: amazing food, beer, and all the puppies you could ever imagine—golden retriever puppies.  I’ll forever miss those drunken nights we spent in the hot tub, or Dude Tub as it came to be called…because there were a lot of dudes…in a hot tub…Dude Tub.  Our two-week stint there ended once we finally found our shitty home.

It is in the top picture where we now reside.  A two bedroom “slave quarters” (as Kevin calls it, appropriately); where homesickness and hard times are cured by the cool ocean breeze; where a past life ends, a new one begins, and a bright future sits just on the horizon; where Seven Kings is the only beer we can afford, but I’m not complaining; and where air mattresses fill our bedroom floor, because our asses are so poor.

I left a perfectly good life to live with two idiots in a small, shitty house; surviving my next few months off of savings from my past few months; looking for work during the day, and (upon failure) drinking the night away: Valhalla.  This is why Dan Ray Sucks, and if you’re sacrificing your future to chase some wild dream, then you suck, too.

Tips to suck less:
-Leave a comment.
-Tell your friends, friends’ friends, random bums, etc.
-Finally, invest in an air mattress: it’s like sleeping on a cloud, a plastic cloud.


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