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Maybe I Should Have Taken French in School, After All

Okay, it’s time for a little disclosure here. I’m going to be taking a leetle itty bitty short hiatus around here. Now, given that I’ve recently backed off of my ‘post a day, every day’ policy, none of you would frankly notice this little outage. I’m only going to be gone from tomorrow morning around 11am until sometime Sunday evening, maybe six or seven pm. So honestly, I’m not really sure it’s worth mentioning.

But I’m going to mention it, anyway. I’m a stubborn little monkey that way. Woo-hah.

For you see, this is no usual, run-of-the-mill hiatus. No, sir. No, this is different. Special. Frightening. Because this pause in service is being caused by a trip — a road trip, specifically. A road trip to participate in my friend Tim’s bachelor party. All night. Strip clubs. Tomorrow. In Montreal. Canada.

Do you see this look, folks? That’s fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. And a little bit of horny. But mostly fear. Like, ninety percent fear, and just an eensy bit of horny. More or less.

(And maybe some gas. I had nachos earlier during the Red Sox game. But that’s probably not important right now. I’m thinking I should probably just not mention these extraneous details in future. Let’s get back to the point again, eh?)

So, here’s the thing — it’s not that we’re going to set out on a ‘tour de boobs‘ that scares me. It’s just that we’re careening off to a whole other fricking country to do it that makes me want to pee my pants a little. I mean, heading out on a quest for tasteful nudity, solely — and I stress solely, so far as you know — to help a compatriot celebrate his entry into the hallowed institution of marriage? I’m there. I am so there, creased dollar bills in hand and ready to help out.

But I’ve got to be honest here — I have never, in all my years of ogling scantily (or less) clad women, felt the need to travel to a different nation to do it. There are plenty of opportunities for that sort of lewd behavior right here at home. And if not here, then in the town next door, or a short drive north, or… well, crap, right at home on the internet. That’s what it’s there for, after all, isn’t it?

So trekking all the way to Montreal for the ‘*boom-shicka-wakka*‘s has me more than a little bit nervous. I expect to need some dollars for this sort of thing; I’m comfortable needing my wallet, and maybe even a drink or two. But when it requires my frigging passport?! Ay, chihuahua!

See, I’m just concerned that this is going to go somehow horribly wrong, and we’re all going to end up in some sort of French-speaking prison with a bunch of lumberjacks named Claude. Or worse. It’s the apprehension that’s worse than anything — it’s like being in some bad thriller movie, knowing that something terrible is sure to happen along the way. I feel like I’m in ‘I Know What You’re About to Do This Summer‘, or ‘Deliverance North‘, or something. I have this nagging feeling that not all of us are going to make it back. Creepy.

But, I signed up for the trip, so I’m going, dammit. Me and my creased-down-the-middle singles are heading north, and we’ll see how it all turns out. I frankly never thought I’d ever be driving seven hours out of my way to make a titty bar cootchie call, but there it is. Sometimes, life throws you a curveball when you’re looking for a fastball. And sometimes, it’s a G-string and a pair of pasties when you’re expecting a day on the couch watching football. I like to think I can adapt. I’m cool and shit like that.

So, you kids have a good weekend, eh? I’ll be back — and likely with plenty of stories — on Sunday night, and hopefully up to posting. I’d appreciate it if you’d wish me luck… or maybe send along the number of a good bail bondsman. Cue the humpty-hump music — I’m outta here.