What I Did On My Vacation

[MathGirl]

That Joyce woman

Sorry, I don't much enjoy books written by women. I remember seeing the pub in Dublin where most of Joyce's books were written. She apparently liked to drink while writing. Possibly I should try that.
MG
Ps. Please find stuff below.

Subject: Maybe to Miami, but possibly not

Well, I finally got into the restroom and put the darned pantyhose back on. I was sort of grumpy about my failed attempt at A Sure Fire Way To Drive Him Wild. I guess the woman who wrote that stupid magazine article never met John. Maybe I just picked the wrong time to try the SFWTDHW. That's always possible, and I might use the SFWTDHW at another time. He doesn't need much encouragement, though, when we're alone. That's good, because I don't either. Need much encouragement, that is. I mean, he thinks I'm pretty good looking and he knows I'm affectionate, and he likes to touch me. It's just a Not In Public thing, even if nobody else would ever know. After I thought about it, though, I realized that I would have been sort of uncomfortable with a draft on my crotch, even if I was covered up with a blanket. Even if the Sure Fire Way To Drive Him Wild had worked, I wasn't sure that I'd have enjoyed it as much as I first thought I would. I've noticed that a lot of things are like that. Not as good as you thought it would be, I mean. Well, of course you knew that already. Sure you did. You're like that. Cognizant. Anyway, if the Sure Fire Way To Drive Him Wild had worked, what could we have done about it in that MD80? Just made a spectacle of ourselves, and I already mentioned how unseemly the couple back in the corner who needed a bucket of water had been. Huh, maybe she read that article. All in all, I think I'm glad John made me put them back on. The pantyhose, I mean. I wasn't grumpy so much as embarrassed and disappointed, but John kissed me and told me he loved me when I got back to my seat, so that made everything okay. Of course he did that when I got back to my seat. I shouldn't have even mentioned it. It's dumb to think that he could have kissed me and told me he loved me when I was in the restroom with the door locked. Oh, I suppose he could have yelled through the door, but kissing? Forget it. Fat chance, Moosebreath. I still had on those Delta Airlines sock-slippers. They're black and very comfy, but I probably already told you about that. I'm not really sure, though, because this whole thing is sort of mind-numbing. I'm sure you would agree with that. After all, you're on the receiving end. Thank God I'm not. On the receiving end, that is. Those slipper thingies don't make much of a fashion statement with a sort of dressy knit dress, but who cares when it's early in the Aye Emm and morning also? Not me, I'm sure. Actually, they do make a fashion statement, just not a good one. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. John had three little unopened bottles of Grand Marnier, three bottles of that Corvouissurreye cognac stuff, and a crystal snifter lined up on the little tray in front of him. To get back to my seat, I had to crawl over his lap so he would't have to put the tray up. I got frisked a little while I was crawling, and that was nice. John likes those things mixed half and half, and won't drink them unless he has a snifter. Says the stuff is very expensive, made and aged by masters, and they deserve better than to be swigged out of a Dixie cup or slugged out the bottle concealed by a paper sack the way do with Night Train in Oakland. He always carries a snifter in his luggage, because even nice hotels seldom have them in the rooms as an everyday thing. Just think of the heartbreak of being snifterless in Miami. Or anywhere else, for that matter. What a tragedy. John takes his pleasures seriously, and I'm sure glad I'm one of them. I like to think I'm higher on his list of pleasures than expensive liquor, and I'm quite sure I am. I try my best to be numero uno. On his list, that is. He he had told Roxanne what he had planned on drinking on the way to Miami, and she had brought him the whole works at once to save trips to and from wherever it is they keep the booze. They probably keep that stuff locked up, because it's really expensive. They certainly wouldn't want some wandering miscreant from coach getting into the stuff. I know they're expensive because I bought a bottle of each to keep on hand, and I almost wet my pants when I saw the prices. I didn't know that booze cost so much. I'd always thought over a dollar for a Pepsi was exorbitant, so it's no wonder I was shaken and nonplussed when I went to buy liquor for the first time. If I was a heavy drinker, I think I'd stick to MD 20-20, Night Train, and Thunderbird. Those are all called something like fortified wine like products, and I think it's best that they do not have a consumer label listing ingredients. That might make a consumer go on the wagon. Comparison shopping has led me to the conclusion that they represent the most bang for the buck, though. I kept one of the Grand Manure empties as a souvenir, and it has gone the way of all my souvenirs. Out there in the ethereal yonder where lost luggage goes to disappear forever. I hope that whoever ended up with my lost suitcase likes empty minature liquor bottles, menus, itinerareries, fifteen beaded men's belts in assorted sizes, matchbooks, bar napkins, brochures, unwashed underwear, and sun screen. If they like that stuff, they hit the jackpot with my suitcast. If not, tough luck, Chuck. Where was ... Oh ... They had snifters in first class, but I think it's plastic all the way back in the coach section. Huh. They probably just slug the stuff out of the bottle back there. They likely serve it in paper sacks so the folks from Oakland will feel comfortable. I took a couple of sips of John's first drink, and that combined with the big breakfasts, the vodka I'd had earlier, and the lack of needing to pee made me really sleepy. It was something line eight Aye Emm, someone's time. Just about the right time for a nice nap. For a moment I sort of wished that I had my vibie with me, but I knew John wouldn't let me use it there. There's probably something in the Delta Airlines Policy and Procedures Manual For Flight Attentants about passengers using vibrators, and I doubt that it's encouraging news for those who wish to play with themselves. They probaby frown on it, but I didn't ask Roxanne. I was too sleepy anyway. I'm an eight hours a night person, and I was suffering from sleep deprivation. I was also suffering from something else deprivation, but John doesn't do that in public, so I don't either. Anyway, I decided it was nap time. I had about two hours before Miami, and I wanted to pass the time unconscious. That's even better than reading for time passing, I've found. I got all cozy with my sox slippers on, my head in John's lap, two blankets over me, and I found that I wasn't sleepy anymore. I mean I was totally wide awake, and there was no possibility of going to sleep. The next thing I knew, John was stroking my cheek and telling me we were going to be landing in Miami in a few minutes. So much for my two minute bout of insomnia. It was horrible, and now I can sympathize with those who suffer from sleep disorders. I'm not usually like that, you know. I'm a good sleeper, and I demonstrated my ability to go all unconscious after that awful two minutes of insomniacal wakefulness. Well, you didn't know, but now you do. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I don't see how Louise can carry on like this for hours at a time. She never runs down, though. You would think she'd get a sore throat or something. Well, she drinks a lot, so that probably keeps her throat from drying out. I'm afraid I didn't get us very far this time, but I promise to do better next time. Actually, I didn't do so bad. At least I got us on the approach to Miami International. I think I can take a bit of pride in that, considering how little progress has been made in most of these letters. Oh, they had to wake up Mr Stool Sample to get him ready for the landing. He was apparently too dazed to tell anyone how important and rich he was when he woke up. I thought that was a blessing. I don't know what John had been doing while I was asleep, but those six little bottles were still sitting on his tray, unopened. I guess he had decided against getting roaring drunk. He says he never sleeps on airplanes, but I'd rather think that John snuck in a little nap than that he spent the time playing with Roxanne while I was alseep. Anyway, being of the waste not want not persuasion (possibly a consequence of my Jewish heritage, my mother being a Kike), I snuck the full bottles into my little carry on case. I'm not sure if I had to sneak, but I wasn't gonna have Roxanne telling me to Leave them things there, Girly, they are the property of Delta Airlines. Never can tell when you might need an emergency supply of expensive booze, can you? Of course you can't. I'm sure you agree. Since this letter ends with us about to land in Miami, I can state with confidence that we will probably actually make the touchdown next time. I wouldn't bet the farm on it, though. That's the figurative farm I'm referring to, of course. I doubt that you are actually a rural landowner. Never can tell, though, can you? Of course not.

 

[Guest]

Re: That Joyce woman

Sorry, I don't much enjoy books written by women. I remember seeing the pub in Dublin where most of Joyce's books were written. She apparently liked to drink while writing. Possibly I should try that.

Hur hur hur.

Perdita

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

MathGirl is creating a new sub-genre in the field of travel writing, the endless narrative.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[MathGirl]

MathGirl is creating a new sub-genre in the field of travel writing, the endless narrative.

Dear Rumple,
Here's a troublesome statistic. Since I started this thing, it's been getting about a hundred reads a day. That's scary.
MG
Ps. And I haven't even hit my stride yet.

 

[Wills]

Since I started this thing, it's been getting about a hundred reads a day. That's scary.

MG
It just shows how p***ed off we readers are with paragraphs, what a waste of space.
W

 

[Guest]

... And I haven't even hit my stride yet.

Whoa! I'm glad the week end is here.

Perdita

 

[MathGirl]

Back to DFW, I'm afraid.

MG
It just shows how p***ed off we readers are with paragraphs, what a waste of space.

Dear Wi,
Please keep in mind that these are written in Auntie-speak. You should be grateful that I use punctuation and sentences. She doesn't.
MG
Ps. Perdita, When has a weekend ever stopped you.
Pps. Where's Sven.........ska?

Ummm ... It's really exhausting, trying to write like Auntie talks, but I'm sure not to leave anything out this way. Louise sure never fails to supply details. I don't know how she keeps it up for hours on end. Well, when I say Hours On End, I don't mean that literally. After all, hours have no tangible physical presence so they cannot be stacked on end, side by side, or even in cunningly arranged rows. I hope we have that straightened out now, so I can get on with the important stuff. Since you are determined to read it, I guess I'll have to continue writing. You certainly wouldn't be reading much more of this stuff if I stopped writing it, would you? Huh. Good luck, Chuck. By the way, I've bloated up into the mid nineties (aviordupois, but I could convert that to Kg or even Troy weight if you really need it) after all the great food on that criuse. Oops, there I go again, jumping the gun and skipping ahead to something that happened later rather than letting it be a surprise for you. Sorry. I'll tell you about the time I ate three lobsters at one sitting, but I'm trying to get us to Miami here and you'll just have to hold your taters. I'm speaking of figurative, hypothetical, or virtual taters, of course. I seriously doubt that you're sitting there with a wholesome Idaho russet close at hand, ready to be held. Actually, I'm afraid I'm going to need to backtrack a little. I know, I know, just as we were getting so close to Miami at long last. Sorry. I just realized that I didn't finish telling you about the last part of our stay at DFW and the subsequent initiation of Miami-bound part of our trip. Not that anything even the least bit interesting happened, but I want to fill in the blanks for the sake of completeness. I'm sure you will appreciate the effort. Okay ... we were at the DFW terminal and got back to our seats on the MD 80, that's the one with an engine under each wing. If you're mathematically inclined, that makes for two engines totally altogether, but I think I already mentioned that at least once. Where was I? Oh. I believe I also already told you about Mr Stool Sample, so I'll leave him out of this as much as possible if you promise to keep in mind that he was right there across the aisle at all times. Okay, we have that settled so we can get on with this thing. I sat by the window, but there wasn't much to see except what I told you about before. For the sake of brevity, I'm not going to repeat the part about the lights and the guys in coveralls wandering around wearing those big ear muffs. One of the guys in coveralls and ear muffs was sort of strolling around, not having much of anything to do. I happened to glance at him at a time when he he didn't think anyone was looking. He reached around, put his hand down the back of his pants, and gave his butt hole a good scratching. Through his underwear, I hope, but maybe not. Sudden attack of pruritis ani, I expect. Thought he had snuck in an unobserved butt hole scratching, I suppose. Well, I saw him, but I didn't say anything. After all, what does one say in a situation like that? Well, I could probably think of a few things, but I decided to let it go without comment. If I'd been able to throw open the window, I might have yelled Hay You, I saw you sneak that butt hole scratching, now go wash your hands or I'll tell your mom. I didn't even tell John. Not that he would have been interested. At least he didn't sniff his fingers when he was finished scratching. I might have said something if he'd done that. Or wanted to shake hands. If I absolutely had to do something like that, I would certainly go to the restroom to do it. I'm like that, though. Fastidious. Maybe the guy had pinworms. They cause pruritis ani, you know. You didn't know that? Well, they do. Big time. I'm sure pinworms have a Latin name (most everything does, you know) but I'm not acquainted with it. Okay, okay, I'll assign the pinworms a temporaty Latin name if you absolutely have to have one. Ummm ... Physeter macrocephalus. How's that? Satisfied? Oh, good. Umm... Oh ... The sky was starting to get light, just like it usually does at home following an extended period of darkness. Since there wasn't much going on, John asked Roxanne to bring him a cup of coffee and one of those little bottles of Courvoisseurrie cognac. I guess he wanted to get a headstart on getting roaring drunk on the way to Miami. Actually, he never gets drunk, but he does get more affectionate sometimes, and I think I've already mentioned that. I encourge his drinking as much as possible. I like him affectionate, and I'm always that way when I'm with him. I'm not at all that way when John's not around,though. Nobody else has ever even kissed me, unless you count the boy in the movie and the one on the hayride when I was about twelve. The first boy missed and kissed me on the nose, and I don't think that counts. Some first kiss, huh? An experience like that could put a weaker person off kissing permanently, but I worked through it. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I guess Roxanne decided we were like new passengers, so she offered us out choice of OJ, champagne, or a mixture of the two. We weren't new passengers, though, because we had been on that damn plane lots longer than Roxanne. Unless, of course, they carry replacement attendants in some sort of bull pen in back. Ummm.... Oh... I've already covered the drink naming business, so for the sake of brevity I won't repeat all that. I'm assuming that you remember about the tree, the bug, and the wop. I decided that I'd get roaring drunk along with John, so I asked for champagne. He suggested I change my order to a Mimosa. I'm glad he did, because champagne is lots better with OJ, and I don't think I'd like being roaring drunk, anyway. Actually I've never been drunk. Just kind of tipsy, and I like that. John watches my intake pretty carefully. I let him, because I do everything he says, anyway. I'm normally a very independent person, but I've found that doing what John says is almost always better, safer, and more fun than what I would have done if I'd been left to my own devices. He thinks I get too affectionate when I drink. That may be true from his perspective, but I think I'm just about right. He doesn't object when we're alone. I can be as affectionate as I want then. He's really affectionate when we're alone, too, so we make a great fit. From what I've written, it probably sounds like we didn't do anything but drink on that MD80. That really was not the case. I've written a lot about it, because there was so little else happening to tell you about. The actual alcohol consumption was actually quite low. With the exception of Mr Stool Sample, of course. He was sort of force fed, though. Well, not really forced. They just kept putting the stuff in front of him, and he did his part by drinking it as soon as it arrived. A rather symbiotic relationship, if you think about it. I sure hope that, in retrospect, I'm not confusing this with another part of our trip or something I just sort of dreamed when I was groggy from sleep deprivation. With all the restroom going to and from, intermittant bouts of sleepiness, etc., things are just a bit confused in my mind. Be that as it may, and whether it really happened exactly this way or not, I'm determined to tell you about it. The MD 80 had been on external power while we were on the ground, but they finally started the engines and I figured we were going to get going soon. I was getting sort of bored just sitting there. There isn't any reason why it should be less boring in the air, but at least you're going somewhere. Don't you agree? Of course you do. You're like that. Agreeable. Actually there's even less to look at out the window at 32k feet than there is when you're on the ground. Especially when it's dark outside. There sure aren't any guys in coveralls wandering around at 32k feet. Pruritis ani or not. If you see that, you should probably ease off on the Mimosas and have a little nap. While we were sitting there, I had a sip of John's coffee with that Courv stuff in it, and it was awful. I'll never understand why people drink things like that. I'd much rather have a dollar's worth of Pepsi than a fifty dollar bottle of that Coruv .... cognac. Of course you could trade that fifty dollar bottle ..... Oh, never mind. I drank some, though, so I wouldn't smell it on him when we kissed. Sort of like eating onions in self defense. John taught me about that when I was fourteen. It's amazing, April 2nd will be our seventh anniversary. If the twenty fifth anniversary is silver, I wonder what the seventh is. Plastic? Pewter? Antimony? Oh, well. The anniversary of our first kiss. April 5th is the anniversary of the .. other stuff. Yes, I know about those laws, but it doesn't apply to us. No way, Jose. I'd better make it clear that I'm not referring to the No Way Jose in Terry Pratchett's novels. Remember him? He's a bum that lives under the Brass Bridge in Ankh Morpork along with Foul Ol Ron, Coffin Henry, The Duck Man, and Crumbling Michael. Oh, and the horribly vile little dog with all the external and internal parasites, licky end, and dry pad who can talk and whose name I can't remember. This is once again the figurative Jose to whom I made reference in an earlier article. Where was ... Oh, yes ... It's too late to do anything about it anyway. I'm all grown up now, and I even have three college degrees under my belt. Well, not really and actually under my belt, but figuratively speaking. After all, the corners of the frames would really dig in if they were under one's belt. If they were under the belt in back, one might sit down and break the glass. Wouldn't that be a pisser? Of course it would. Lacerations of the buttocks is not something I care to contemplate. That reminds me of the movie Forrest Gump with Tom Hanks. He got shot in the buttocks. In the movie. There's a big restaurant in Monterey called Bubba Gumps where they serve shrimp in all sorts of ways, have lots of Forrest Gump memorabilia, and have TVs all over the place showing parts of the movie. Pretty good grub and lots of it. It's near the aquarium. Tell them I sent you, and they'll look at you funny. Umm... Oh... John and me. It has worked out wonderfully for us, though, and I love him more than ever. He would never try to sneak a butt hole scratching in a public place. Lots more, because I didn't know much about it when it started. I thought I did, but I didn't. John says he loves me more, too, and I believe him. He's a little too big for me, and I think that's perfect. I decided to give him one of the little Christmas gifts I'd bought for him. I hope I don't need to repeat the explanation of why we were doing Christmas in February. I don't? Oh, good. I just get him cheap, fun stuff, except for the silver (0.925 Sterling, not electroplate) case for the guinea stinkers which I described at some length earlier. He buys anything he wants for himself, so it's more fun just to buy him things he'd never think of buying for himself. I guess I could impress him if I gave him a new BMW, or something, but I don't think I have that much money. Besides, he's a Mercedes Benz guy, and he already has several of those, old and new. He collects old cars and drives new ones except the old Corvette which he drives when he feels like making a lot of noise. His prize car, though is a 1950 Jaguar MK-120. It was named the MK120 because it was made to go 120 mph. I don't know about the derivation of the MK, probably mark, but I certainly hope nobody is going to confuse the MK120 and the MD80. That could easily be done, and a real disaster might be the result. It's just like new and has less than 20k actual miles on it. It's white with real wire wheels. I'm talking about the MK120, not the MD80. The MD80 probably gets 20K miles on it every few days, what with all the running around Delta puts it through. They don't make any mondy if those things are sitting on the ground, you know. Everything original but the red leather upholstery which was originally red, too, but it rotted away. Sic transit gloria omni. That's Latin, you know. Well, of course you would, because you know about Latin America. He found it in a barn somewhere in Ireland and brought it home. He does that. Finds stuff in odd places and brings it home to fix it up. Mainly old airplanes, but the occasional car, too. That's why he has three big hangars at an airport. Please don't get the idea he drove it back here. We both know that's silly. After all, there aren't any gas stations on the way. The steering wheel is on the wrong side. I've never driven it. The Jaguar, I mean. I wouldn't want to anyway, because I might bend it and John would be pissed. He puts up with a lot from me, but I think bruising his precious Jaguar would be a severe test of his tolerance, and I wouldn't want to push my luck. It's been really good so far, my whole life, and I'd hate to break my streak. Well, I'm not much good at gambling, but I didn't know it at that time, because I had tried it. Wait until I tell you about my experiences at the blackjack table on the bo... Oops, there I go again. Jumping the gun, I mean. Besides, I don't think I could shift gears with my left hand, although I'm left handed. Did I ever tell you that I'm a southpaw? Well I am. I got my little case down from the overhead storage. They have those on MD 80s, you know. Of course you do, I mentioned it earlier. I handed him a little wrapped present, and everyone sitting around us got very interested as he was opening it. It was a pair of white boxer shorts with red lip prints all over. Mr Stool Sample across the aisle from John thought they were really funny, and I blushed. He liked them and kissed me. John, I mean, not Mr SS. Huh. Fat chance, Moosebreath. That was the best part. The kissing, I mean. He put the shorts in his briefcase, and Roxanne disposed of the wrapping. They're good about that in first class. Cleaning up after the passengers. I don't know about in back. They probably just let the stuff pile up and take a pressure washer and yard blower to it every two weeks. Like cleaning out Candlestick Park after a Forty Niner game. I must admit that I've never flown coach. I know, I know, I'm spoiled. I've been led to believe that I'm deserving of it, and who am I to argue? I'm not like that. Argumentative, I mean. I don't know much about the coach section, but I have a mental image of it being sort of like Oak Park in Sacramento. The cops are afraid to go there. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I'm sorry about the digression, but I thought I should tell you about the final phases of our stay on the ground at DFW. We can now return to where we were before the interruption. I think that was at the end of the flight to Miami, at which time we were preparing to arrive at the destination to which we were going. I sure hope so, because I'm really, really getting sick and tired of talking about being in a MD80 on the way from DFW to Miami. Whew.

Ps. Gaspode Ha! The unhygenic talking dog in T.Pratchett's novels whose name I couldn't remember earlier. No, no, the name of the dog, not the novels. I didn't even try to remember those, but I'll bet I could.

Pps. In case Mr Stool Sample and the guy with pruritis ani are amongst my several readers, I make no apologies for pointing out your behavioral and social shortcomings. You know who you are, and you should be ashamed of yourselves. You were raised better than that, and you should mend your ways. Think of the heartbreak if your moms found out.

Ppps. I have a confession to make. Remember that Latin name I assigned to pinworms early on in this narrative? Well, I cheated. Physeter macrocephalus actually the taxonomic name of the sperm whale. Yep, it really is, and it was the first Latin name that came to mind. Look it up if you don't believe me, but you will just be wasting your time. The macrocephalus part means Big Head, of course, and that's a characteristic of that species of aquatic mammal. Just watch Moby Dick sometime, and you'll see. I mean the real one with Gregory Peck as Captain Nemo, not that Patrick guy who is really some Frenchy on Star Trek Two. Of course M. Dick in the movie was probably made of rubber or plaster of paris, but the actual living sperm whales are noted for their remarkably large cabesas (that's Latin American). Should they wear hats, the size would be astronomical, and I doubt that many stores would be large enough to keep more than one in stock. Their heads aren't really shaped for proper hat wearing, though, and they would need a chin strap. Since they don't have chins either, it could be quite problematic. I find it somewhat risible to consider a person having pruritis ani as a result of an infestation of sperm whales. If you think about that, I believe you will also be hard pressed to restrain a modest chuckle.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

It's really exhausting, trying to write like Auntie talks,

Maybe so, but you don't have to read it. By the way, that guy at D/FW wasn't scratching himself. The fact he didn't smell his finger afterward is proof positive. The poor pitiful peon probably had his panties in a wad and was struggling to get a little relief. Since you go flying around the country sans drawers, you wouldn't know about that.

Rumple (red eye) Foreskin

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Re: Back to DFW, I'm afraid.

I find it somewhat risible to consider a person having pruritis ani as a result of an infestation of sperm whales. If you think about that, I believe you will also be hard pressed to restrain a modest chuckle.

He he he he she said, "sperm"

 

[Wills]

MG
I always thought the old rhyme 'Sugar and spice and all things nice - that's what little girl's are made of' was just a ruse to make little boy's like them. Now, having read your discourse, I'm not so sure.

From your acute and detailed observations it would appear that only males are anally disfunctional, certainly the females in first class are just like I've always dreamt them to be. I wonder, if it's not too much trouble, could you possibly pop into the coach section rest room, just to see if it's one of those silly 'class' things.

 

[MathGirl]

&&^^%$^$(*&&^%!!

HAALLLLLLLPPPPPPPPP!!!!

I just changed my Windows to the XP version, and I wish I hadn't. Since I'm stuck with it now, I have a problem. Before, when I got onto Lit.com, I was automatically logged in. Now, it doesn't recognize me, and I have to log in with my user name and password. To call this a real pisser is to understate the situation.

How the (*&^(*&%*^%$!! do I get logged in automatically? Logging in manually every time is going to severly interfere with the posting of my travel adventures. Of course not telling me how to do it would be a way of discouraging further posts.

MG

 

[Wills]

MG - PM'd you, might help solve problem.

 

[MathGirl]

Yay!

Thanks to Wills, I toss my cookies automatically every time I come here and it recognizes me. Well, I'd sure recognize someone if they tossed their cookies every time they showed up at my place. Well, enough about that. Oh, you know...........
MG

 

[minsue]

Re: Yay!

Thanks to Wills, I toss my cookies automatically every time I come here and it recognizes me. Well, I'd sure recognize someone if they tossed their cookies every time they showed up at my place. Well, enough about that. Oh, you know...........
MG

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Speaking of toss my cookies automatically every time I come here! I was really in the mood to read some more of the vacation story already in progress.

Please continue,

Phildo

PS. Maths are you going to post it in the story area when finiti?

 

[MathGirl]

Speaking of toss my cookies automatically every time I come here! I was really in the mood to read some more of the vacation story already in progress.

Please continue,

Phildo

PS. Maths are you going to post it in the story area when finiti?

Dear 7,
I thought we could all do with a day or two off, but there is a lot yet to come. I haven't even gotten us to Miami yet. I don't think my Auntie-speak narrative is worthy of posting in the story area. If for no other reason, there's no category that would seem to fit. Maybe if I found a travel site ....
MG

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Very well if that is what the majority wishes I will go along with it.
I guess I am forced to read something really insane like a fake Don Quixote sequel.

 

[minsue]

Very well if that is what the majority wishes I will go along with it.
I guess I am forced to read something really insane like a fake Don Quixote sequel.

I disagree. Fuck the majority. I want to see it posted in its entirety.

- Mindy, a fan

 

[sailorm72003]

I disagree. Fuck the majority. I want to see it posted in its entirety.

- Mindy, a fan

I'm with Mindy on this one, post it.

(It's also a useful training aid, for how to keep from sputtering soda all over the keyboard)

Sailor

 

[Wills]

I'm bumping this 'cos we fixed ya cookies, it's nearly supper time and I want something light to read.

 

[MathGirl]

Ha! Thought I'd quit, didn't you?

Miami to the Panama Canal (abridged version)

Well, I've decided that we simply can't go on at this pace. Actually, I mean the pace in the last few editions, not this one, because said pace is going to be picked up considerably now. When last I wrote, we were wheels-down on that MD80 about to arrive at that portion of terra firma known as Miami International Airport. Well, we did. Arrive, I mean. You knew that, though, of course. I was mentally and physically prepared to be taken to a nice hotel, fed, bathed, played with, and allowed to sleep for about 24 hours. Hah! No way, Jose. Little did I know that the plans called for us to wait at the Miami airport for about two hours, then fly over to San Juan, Puerto Rico. All I remember about Miami airport is that it was crowded, and it had trains that didn't have any drivers. They arrive where you are, you either get on or don't, and they go where they go, whether that's where you want to go or not. John decided he had to have a smoke, so we got on one of those robot trains to find a door to the outside. We never did find outside, but we killed an hour riding around in circles underground. Wahoo. Well, enough about that. End of subject, finito. I was so groggy and sleep deprived that the stay in Miami is sort of a fog. That wouldn't normally prevent me from describing said fog in considerable detail, but I am determined to stay on course and exercise brevity. Otherwise, we would have another DFW to Miami odyssey, and I'm sure neither of us wants to go through that again. Of course you don't. Suffice it to say that we eventually go onto another plane and were flown to Puerto Rico. I'm terribly sorry, but I was too groggy to even notice what kind of plane it was. I never even got to know the names of the flight crew, because I slept almost all the way and had to be shaken awake on the ground in PR. On the way, I remember that we flew over the island of Hispanola. If you are geographically challenged, that is a large place inhabited mostly by dark people. It's about half Haiti and half the Dominican Republic (home of the great Juan Marichal, Phillipe Alou, and other SF Giant baseball players). There was quite a fuss going on in the Haiti side, so I'm glad we didn't land there. I think we sort of had to dodge around Cuba on the way, but I don't know anyone there, so who cares? Not me, I'm sure. You either? Good. Anyway, Puerto Rico is out there someplace, and we went there. To avoid belaboring a point, it was plane, terminal, limo, hotel. So there we were, on about the 40th floor of this high rise hotel on the beach in San Juan, and we had a lovely view of a couple of identical hotels in the area. For some reason, we got the VIP treatment with fresh flowers and champagne in the room. We had no sooner gotten rid of the bellguy and were having our first unobserved kiss in eons when there was a knock on the door. John opend it, and there was, gasp, my Aunt Louise with her urggl urologist boyfriend Howard in tow. I mean the urggl for Howard's line of work, not him personally. I like Howard. Guess what? John had decided to give me a big surprise by inviting them along on the trip. Shit. I mean, I live next door to Auntie (that's pronounced Awntie, and she hates it, so that's what I call her. In retaliation she calls me Girly) and see her every day. Oh, well. John and Howard are old friends since they flew planes in the navy (U.S.) together, and they are bridge partners. They play cut throat, high stakes, take no prisoners bridge and play with other people of the same persuasion. At the risk of repeating myself: Wahoo. After they were in the room and the champagne poured, I grabbed John by the sleeve and pulled him aside for a little private conversation. During said conversation, I made it clear that I wanted a long shower, a good thorough ... some personal attention, another shower, and dinner. In that order, with nothing left out. I don't often make demands, but I'd put in a hard day already, and I thought I had a right. Guess what? I got everything I wanted and in the order specified. I decided I would make demands more often in the future. The day was capped off by twelve hours of sleep, and I awakened to a Monday AM in PR. Since we couldn't get on the boat until afternoon, we wandered around the area. I can sum up my impression of PR briefly: The area of high rise hotels on the beach is very nice, and the rest of the place is dirty and smells bad. They seem to take a rather informal approach to refuse disposal which means they sort of dump it in the street. Well, I think that sums up PR, so enough about that. End of subject. Finito. We met up with Louise and Howard for lunch at a Cuban restaurant. I had some stuff I had never tried before, and I didn't like it much. I kept it down, though, so the lunch wasn't a total waste. I always feel that if you can keep a meal down, a restaurant deserves at least one star, but perhaps I'm too lenient. Then it was time to get a taxi and go find the boat. The cab had a very loud horn, poor brakes, and a suicidal driver, so I had my hands over my eyes and missed whatever scenery there was on the way to the boat. It wasn't at all hard to find the boat. It was the biggest thing I'd ever seen. Bigger than PR, I think. It was also white. BIG and white. That was the boat. End of subject. Finito. There were some formalities to be gone through while getting on, but we were soon in our room (that's a nautical term, and there will be lots more so pay attention). It was one of the big rooms upstairs with a living room and bedroom. Even picture windows, but those round things to look through in the bedroom. I was amazed to find that our luggage had been delivered, somebody had unpacked everything, all the stuff was hung up and put away, and the suitcases had disappeared. Fresh flowers and champagne again ho hum. Well, we left PR at about sundown, fooled around the Caribbean for a couple of days, then we got in line for that canal thing. That was supposed to be the highlight of the trip, and everybody was all excited. On the way, Auntie met the captain of the boat who was a da... an Italian gentleman named Lago Vermicelli. I'm not sure about the last name, but he was definitely Lago. He really liked Louise, and always spoke to her boobies. I guess Lago was a boobie man. Probably still is, but enough about that for now. We had to spend the night on the east side of the Panamanian isthmus, along with several hundred other boats. It was very pretty there, with the lights of the other ships. Lago assured us that everyone was just going to drop anchor and wait until the canal thing opened up for business in the morning. He said that there was plenty of room for everyone, and we certainly were not packed in there like sardines. I sense a vague feeling of apprehension here, but let me assure you that there was lots of space for all those boats. Well, I'll pick up the events next time with the evening and night we spent in a non-sardine like situation there with all those other boats. Oh, you could also see the lights of the city of Colon. Well, of course YOU couldn't see them, because you weren't there. They could clearly be seen, though. Great name for a town, lower intestine. Where are you from? Oh, I'm from Colon. Good luck, Chuck. That's almost as bad as being from The Restrooms, CA which I believe I covered in a previous emission. Bye.

 

[shereads]

Meanwhile, I need to look up the meaning of "Dudeacious" and the dictionary has been neglected.

Where are your priorities? What about me?

 

[A7inchPhildo]

I was amazed to find that our luggage had been delivered, somebody had unpacked everything, all the stuff was hung up and put away, and the suitcases had disappeared. Fresh flowers and champagne again ho hum. Well, we left PR at about sundown, fooled around the Caribbean for a couple of days, then we got in line for that canal thing

OK Girly, I am thinking we are getting the abridged version. I also think the good stuff was someplace in between. "ho hum" and "Canal thing"

Vermicelli is that not like a noodle or something? The captain was a lago thin noodle?

I understand the da... to mean you were not interested in his name.



Phildo Keep going. There is more after Colon or is that the end of the itineris

 

[MathGirl]

Waiting for that canal thing to open up for business in the morning:

Well, because of Auntie's tits, we were invited to sit at the Captain's table at dinner that night. Lago (he was the wo... Italian gentleman who ran the boat) insisted that Auntie sit next to him. Since Lago was the captain, I guess that meant he could have everything his way at his table. That means lake in Italian, you know. Lago, I mean, not Auntie. As far as I know, that doesn't mean anything in Italian. Not being linguistic, though, I'm not really sure. He spent most of the time trying to look down the front of her dress. He was so busy doing it that he spilled a little French onion soup on his nice white uniform. She seemed to be helping him as much as possible. Leaning over so Lago could look down her dress, I mean, not the soup. I was sitting between John and Howard, and nobody seemed to be trying to stare down the front of my dress. Not only is there much less there to see than with Louise, I wasn't wearing the kind of dress that's designed to be looked down the front of. Under the table, though, John put his hand up the bottom of it, and that was just fine. I mean it was fine was long as it was John putting his hand there. I would have been considerably less enthusiastic if it had been Howard, or anyone else, for that matter. When it comes to hands under my dress, only one person is allowed. Well, besides me. Even if I really liked Howard, I know where those hands have been in his work, and .. well, that's enough said about that. End of subject. Finito. Auntie had been complaining about Howard having trouble getting it up sometimes. I guess Howard had performed well that afternoon, though, because Auntie was in a good mood. At least she didn't talk about Howard not being able to get it up. I was sure glad of that. I'll bet Howard was, too. Capitan Lago had his wife along on that trip, and she didn't seem to notice that her husband was very much preoccupied with Aunt Louise's boobies. I think she may have been drunk. Lago's wife, that is. She was overweight and had a nice moustache. Some Italian women are that way, you know. Hirsute, I mean. I'm not like that, but then I'm not Italian, either. I'll bet she had heavy black pubic hair from her belly button to her knees, too, but I was too polite to ask. I'm that way, you know. Well mannered. Dinner was really good, as always. I had prime rib, baked potato with sour cream and butter, salad with lots of roquefort dressing, French bread with butter, green beans with pearl onions and ham in, and everything else I could reach. A few things I couldn't reach were passed to me. If I hadn't been at the Captain's table, I may have ordered another hunk of the beef. You can do that on those boats, you know. Have seconds or thirds on anything you want. I must remember to tell you about my lobster feed. Pig city! They brought out baked Alaska flambe for dessert. In case you didn't know, flambe means that they set the stuff on fire before serving. I guess they use gasoline, or something. That baked Alaska might have been the single most wonderful thing I ever tasted. I ate mine and Auntie's. She's watching her weight, you know. Lago was watching Auntie's weight, too, but in a much different way. From the top. To hell with being ladylike when faced with something as good as Baked Alaska! I didn't think it was necessary to set fire to the stuff, though. That was just showing off. Lago offered to have more of the dessert brought for me, but I was absolutely stuffed. I would have ruptured my pantyhose if I'd eaten any more. I think I gained at least one of those six pounds right there in that one sitting. There was a guy at the next table telling a joke about two guys. Now, I have no problem with listening to a joke about two guys, but he was talking about two guys eating shit in a very loud voice. I mean he was telling the joke in a very loud voice, not eating shit in a very loud voice. I wanted to clarify that, in case any clarification was necessary. I think he was drunk. I sure hope he wouldn't do that when he was sober. Tell a joke about two guys eating shit, I mean, especially during dinner. Everyone at his table seemed to think it was hilarious. Well, his wife just seemed embarrassed. I think they were all drunk. I wasn't drunk, and I couldn't hear the punch line, so I didn't care much for the joke. I saw the guy the next day and thought about asking him to tell me the entire joke, but I decided it might not be appropriate. I still wonder about that, though. Even a really, really good joke about eating shit is simply not something to tell in the dining room. There was quite a bit of that going on, you know. Drinking, I mean. For some people, getting drunk is just a part of being on one of those big boats. That's okay, I guess, because they can't drive and nobody fell overboard. Lago didn't look too pleased about the guy telling the joke about eating shit in a loud voice during dinner. No, the joke wasn't about eating shit during dinner, it was a joke about eating shit which was told during dinner. Good grief. Lago didn't mind too much, though, because he soon went back to looking down the front of Auntie's dress. There's a lot of Auntie down there to look at, and she bought it herself. She's like that, you know. Busty. After dinner it was very romantic to look out at all those other boats in the moonlight. Let me stress once again that it wasn't crowded. Sure, there were lots of boats, but there was also plenty of room for everyone. No crowding at all, so please stop worrying about it. Well, you know what feeling romantic leads to. Later, we had the choice between staying in bed for the night or getting dressed again. John's quite old, and he would just as soon have stayed in bed, I think, but I was feeling lively. I'm like that, you know. Especially ... afterwards. Well, I'm often sleepy then, but this time I wasn't. Unless you want to just walk around on the deck, things are kind of dressy on those boats in the evening. That meant we had to get dressed again. I put on my panties, black strapless bra, pantyhose, little black evening dress (it's quite small, you know, and very black, even when wrong side out), and black shoes with the pointy heels. There is no need for a coat down there, even in the winter. Places with small brown people tend to be like that, of course. Warmish. John dressed in man clothes. You would know more about that than I would, because almost anyone would. John wore the boxers with the lip prints I gave him for Christmas in February. He had pants on over them, of course. He's quite conservative. We went down to the casino and played blackjack. I'd never been old enough to be in a casino before, so that was a new experience. There's a house upper limit of $50 per hand, and that's what John played. I stood behind and watched. He wasn't doing very well, so I went to play the slot machines. I played the quarter machine, and that's the most expensive one there. I hit some sort of big jackpot, and the thing noisily vomited quarters until it was empty. When I finished, I had about half a gallon of quarters, and I could hardly lift the bucket they gave me. When I got it cashed in, it was over two hundred dollars, and that's a lot of quarters. It's a good thing I won, because John was losing. He was behind about $500. He had me sit down in his place and play. He told me what to do, because there's no way I was going to play blackjack for $50 a hand. I was lucky. I got back his $500, and we quit. I fished my over two hundred dollars out of my bra and gave it to John, so we were winners for the evening. It's a good thing I cashed in the quarters for lighter, softer money, because over two hundred in quarters sure wouldn't have fit in my bra. Even Auntie's bra wouldn't have held them. Of course it wouldn't, because there's so much of Auntie in there already. I wasn't carrying a purse, so it was either the bra or stuff it down my panthose. If I'd done that, they would have all ended up somewhere down by my feet. Gravity, you know. I opted for the bra. I'm like that. I'll go for the bra most every time. John was feeling so good about getting his money back that he actually took me to the ballroom and danced with me. I'm not very good at it, but I like to do it sometimes. John isn't very good at it, either, and he, unlike me, doesn't ever like to to it. He does it sometimes to please me. He's like that, you know. Sometimes. Not often, but enough to keep me on my toes. Auntie was there with Howard, and they were dancing up a storm. They both like to dance, and Auntie's very good at it. Howard's mainly there to give her someone to dance with. She loves to shake those big boobies around when there are lots of people watching. She's like that, you know. A public boobie shaker. Well, if I had as much boobie to shake as she does, I'd probably do it, too. She wasn't much of a boobie shaker before her surgery, because there wasn't nearly as much boobie to shake. Even less that I have. Well, we danced for a while until John started to sweat, then we walked around on deck. Auntie and Howard came along, and we all watched the other boats that were waiting there for the canal thing to open up for business in the morning. As I said before, there was plenty of room for all those boats. There was no crowding, and were were definitely not in a sardine-like situation. That's all I have to say about the lack of crowding of the boats during the overnight wait for the canal thing to open up for business in the morning. I understand your concern, but I'd really rather not hear any more about the dangers of boats being too close together on the high seas. I'd much prefer not to discuss the matter any further. Besides, I don't really think you could call that a high seas situation. After all, the seas were not at all high, not even medium. I don't know if there's any such thing as being on the low seas, but if there is, that's where we were. Even if we had been on the high seas, which we were definitely not, there was no crowding involving the boats that were waiting overnight for the canal thing to open up for business in the morning. The combination of being on the low seas and more than adequate separation between the boats waiting for the canal thing to open up for business in the morning made for a safe, non-crowded, and extremely non sardine-like situation. That's it, end of subject. Finito! Now where was I? Oh, yes. Well, by that time everyone was getting sleepy, but I wasn't so sleepy that I forgot about the midnight buffet. They do that every night at ... well ... midnight. I'm sure they wouldn't call it that if they served it at any other time. The first couple of nights, I was in bed and asleep at midnight, so I didn't make it to the buffet. Well, I was up this time, and food was being served, so I wanted some. After all, it had been over four hours since my prime rib-baked Alaska feed. I know you have an unpredictable memory, so I'll repeat that the baked Alaska had been au flambe, which means that they set fire to it. Entirely uncalled for, I personally thought. Also, we had danced for maybe ten minutes total, and that really works up an appetite. At least it does for me. I'm like that, you know. Not much of a dancer, but endowed with an excellent appetite. Well, it was quite a spread. The main attraction seemed to be this huge swan carved out of ice. Everyone thought that was quite special. Those things are called ice carvings. I think the reasons should be obvious. Apparently someone spent several hours in a freezer carving that thing. I really don't know why everyone was so enthused about it, really. I was much more interested in the grub. As I said, it was quite a spread. A light midnight supper, as it was advertised. Well, it was midnight, it was a supper, but I don't do light when it comes to eating. A bunch of guys (mostly fa .... big men) dressed in white with huge absurd hats on were behind the table. They were there to slice and serve. Also to answer questions, I suppose. I mean something like is this stuff edible? Am I likely to keep this down? Will you gaurantee that I won'd get the thin dirties if I eat this stuff? You know. John was still full from dinner, and Auntie hardly ever eats anything, so they sat down to put dibs on a big table. Howard and I attacked that buffet. He's a scrawny little guy, but he can really pack away the groceries. Howard, I mean. Maybe that's why it can't get it up sometimes. I mean, he's a big eater, but I routinely eat twice as much as he does. I've gone through what you would call being a big eater and out the other side. I filled a plate up with rare cold roast beef, patty de four grasses (that's French, you know), black rye bread, and about two dozen big cold shrimp. I love big cold shrimp. I used an ancillary plate for the butter, pasta salad, and coktail sauce. It's better to use two plates than act like a pig and heap one up so much that you leave a trail of overflow on the way to your table. I'm like that, you know. Fastidious. I had to go back for more shrimp, and I probably ate about forty of those things altogether. My auxiliary plate was piled high with shrimp tails when I was finished. I wished I could have taken some home to Senor Alec Thompson. He loves shrimp tails. We had champagne, too, and I was feeling nice and full when I was finished. I tried some caviar, but I don't like the stuff. They're like #6 lead shot made of anchovies and salt, and they smell like cat food. Let the hired help eat that stuff. Cats would probably like it, too. John and Auntie just sat and watched me eat and shook their heads. Auntie said I'll just go over and have a tiny bit of caviar and maybe a dab of the patty de four grasses. She proceeded to download about five thousand Kcalories of dabs and tiny bits. John just smoked a cigar. You can do that on those boats, you know. Smoke, I mean. Well you can do a lot of things on those boats, and smoking is one of them. I definitely won the KCal/Kg contest that evening. I'd bet that I would have won the unlimited division, where Kg of body weight doesn't count. I was pleasantly full when I finished eating, and we four went strolling around on the deck again. Those other boats were still there, of course, waiting for the canal thing to open up for business in the morning. Again, I must stress that there was no crowding. It wasn't as if the boats were jammed in there keel to haul. Having had oceangoing experience, I'm sure you understand those nautical terms. Suffice it to say that the boat to boat spacing was more than adequate and there was no trace of a sardine-like situation. You may just as well be comfortable with that, because I'm sick of the subject and don't plan on addressing the topic again. Enough said! Finny. (That's French) John and I went to our room (that's what they call them on boats; rooms), shared a shower, and went to bed. Since we had thoroughly ... gotten reacquainted earlier, we just went mostly to sleep. I went to sleep comfortable knowing that there was plenty of room for all those boats waiting for the canal thing to open up for business in the morning. I mean, the inter-boat interval was more than adequate. Excessive, even. There could have been twice as many boats waiting there for that canal thing to open up for business in the morning, and there would have still been adequate, even generous, room for everyone. Also, Lago and his boys were up there watching out that nobody got too close. Even had it been foggy (which it never is down there) Lago has radar to keep track of the other boats and get the hell out of there should a sardine-like situation seem likely to develop. I didn't get up until morning. I'm like that you know. I hardly ever get up until I'm awake. After all that eating the previous day, I had a HU ....... well, it was a nice morning. The boat provides an aerosol can of room spray. Glade Floral Bouquet, to be specific. They're good about that, and I never would have thought to bring my own. I was sure glad it was there. The room spray, I mean. They usually are down there where those rather small brown people live. Mornings, I mean. They're usually nice.

Ps. The boats waiting for that canal thing to open up for business in the morning were still nicely spaced when morning happened. There was no evidence whatever that a sardine-like situation had developed overnight.

 

[Wills]

What a man that Lago is! No wonder he's the Captain.

The way he stood up to those guy's telling the dirty jokes AND never once took his eyes of your Aunties boobies.

W
(PS: And he knows how to park a boat)