touched by immaturity: the road that never ends

I hope you remember my account of my adventures.If not, read it, and you will be better fitted to understand.

I stood beside my 1995 Mustang. I had to sell my Ferrari because the insurance was higher than the monthly payment, neither of which I could afford. I didn’t have as many friends after the transition, until I showed the Peurto Ricans the tape player. I pulled my iPhone out and checked the time (my phone looked suspiciously like an older generation Blackberry with an Apple sticker on the back. All those accessories can really weigh a phone down).

My first destination was London, England to see the first annual Irish Breakfast-Loose Spoon Shakespeare festival. I was one of the two attendants. I left my Mustang and traveled by blimp when I discovered that jellyfish can bite. Or something.

The blimp choices were vast: Lynchburg, Heidelberg, Bartberg, Petersberg, Saint Louisberg, and the Amelia Erhart. I thought we had enough of “burgs” for one millennium, so I went with the last option. She was a real beauty: gray, zig-zaggy trim that looked like duct tape. It was on that trip that I learned: transcontinental blimp flights are really boring. I couldn’t communicate with the other passengers because they were all British. I only speak American. The boredom was cut short, however, by the captain muttering “This happens all he time.” All the passengers were curious enough to ignore the flashing warning sign and unbuckle their seat belts to ask what the problem was.

Captain: “Well, to cut a long story short, when I bought this blimp, it said “Ten ton weight limit” on the box. We equal ten tons, one £”

Me: “The box?”

Captain: “we’ll have to land on a formerly undiscovered island in the middle of the Specific ocean and fight for survival.”

Me: “Oh great. Now we’re LOST.

We landed on a lush, fruit tree and non-predatory animal invested island that was thickly inhabited by other unfortunates from ship wrecks, plane wrecks, and car wrecks (it was a land-locked island). Most of these people had evolved into other species, but I couldn’t wait that long. The Loose-Spoon Shakesphere Festival was in a few days. So we found a plane that (miraculously) still worked and flew to England, London. But the airports were backed up (all layovers for the Fortune Noodle Festival in Monte Carlo). I was so indignant that I contacted the Festival and asked them “What gives?” After their preliminary confusion at the question, they explained that due to the small response that the Irish Spoon-Loose Breakfast Festival had received, they had relocated it to Paris.

“Great. I waterlogged my brand new old car for nothing. I don’t even no where Paris is, much less do I speak Parisan.”

Notwithstanding, they redirected my flight to Paris, France, to the “Arish Breakfazt-Luze Sproun Schjocksbeer Fostival.” This was not what I singed up for.

After complaining that I had already purchased a ticket over the internet, and that I didn’t know anybody named Franc or Euro, I finally arrived to see the show of my dreams.

Unfortunately, everyone there was either English-speaking or British-speaking. So they didn’t know French. This show was for Americans, but none of the players knew English. So this was interesting.

“Ravioli, ravioli, whereof art dou, ravioli?” These guys wer holding the scripts as they performed. I wanted to go to Italy now, to Floren. Sworn enemy of Gilder.

“Alas, poor Napoleon. I blew him, Horrible.” I think they were pushing an agenda.

“All the world is staged; we are its payers.” How dumb could these French be? Oh…..never mind.

“Theese contwact says nosing about bwood. Youse cannot wemove a deca-gram of flesh without removing blood.”

“Oh oui? What about liposuction?” This was more than I could stand. I stormed out of the theater, pushed passed the incoming police, and headed for the second nearest airport (the nearest one only dealt in blimps). “How far can I get on frequent-flyer miles?”

“Yous’d maybe go to Lon-don, but they is backed up wiff many people, going to see the just-announced second bi-annual Luze-Spoon Shjocksbeer festival. But you can get to Jackson, Missisissisipipppips…uuuh…This place, with that much.”

I need to rethink my life.

  1. #1 by hannahrileytoo on September 18, 2010 - 1:17 pm

    The first one was funnier.

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