IS a picture worth a thousand words?

As I sit and ever-so-slightly eat my heart out because I'm not at the BlogHer conference today - c'mon, I can't be gone all month, can I? Hmmm - it's got me a-thinkin' about the content I put out on this site, this Cotillion, this place you come to laugh at things you really shouldn't be laughin' about, not in good conscience.

When I first started this here place, I didn't have a digital camera, so all my content was written, and generally longer than a lot of my posts you see now. Once I got the camera earlier this year, I started to supplement my written posts with pictures. That was a great new dimension for me - I could show you Snickers right now, Jim right now, me stickin' my horrid tongue out as far as it'll go right now...Immediacy? Instant creative gratification? Count me in.

And then I found the beauty of usin' graphics as blog filler on days when I didn't have the time to write, or my muse was holdin' out on me - even then, I can always wring out a smartass sentence or two, or a title. That, too, made me feel better; it seemed like more responsible upkeep of the joint to post a picture than to post nothin' on a given day. Yes, I just used the word "responsible" in reference to myself and this site. I think it's safe to say it's time to start drinkin', if you haven't already.

Now I look back through my archives, because I'm just that narcissistic, and I see what seems to me to be a large ratio of pictures to text. Makes me wonder if I haven't become genuinely neglectful of my writing, and writing is what I came here to do in the first place. Should I ditch the pictures and take this thang back to its wroughly written wroots?

Then the clearest of the voices in my head stage whispers to me: "Fuck that shit!"

And it's right. Fuck that shit. I love to take and post pictures, and though I have no idea what I'm doin' with the camera, and a fancy camera with settings I could change would likely confound me, I just like to be able to post illustrations of what's goin' on or what catches my eye at any given moment. And if I can make my family and friends uncomfortable with my doctored-up Photoshop monstrosities, well...bonus! One of the things I really enjoy about this forum is that I can truly put on a multimedia presentation here. I get to write, post photos, post borderline "artwork", do audio blogs, and if I'd spring for the subscription to Audioblog and some conversion software, I could even make movies and post 'em here. Makes me feel all warm and fungusy to know I have so many options for messin' with the Internet as a Whole.

So, yeah, I'll still be comin' at you from all directions. When you least expect it, there I'll be, up your butt, with a camera.


I just love to get a good grip on the saddlehorn.

Fleeting thoughts and Fleet enemas

• Ha! Drew you right in with the enema talk, didn't I? Well, it was just a tease. There will be no water-up-the-butt talk in this post. I don't think there will be, anyway.
• I was at the doctor's office yesterday, and had rather a long wait before I was ushered back to the Scales of Doom. For some reason, I just couldn't take my eyes off the coat tree in the waiting room. Well, actually, there was a damned good reason: it dawned on me how supremely phallic the thing is. It's like a giant wooden phallus, with half a dozen smaller but still impressive phallettes sprouting from it. It was riveting.
  C'mon, folks, admit it - dick-like objects are simply fascinating.
  
• TMI alert! Following on the, ah, heels of the phallic coat rack, I found myself with a mild case of Penis Envy. Do you men have any idea how hard it is for a woman to pee into a specimin jar? You guys with your point-and-shoot pee-pees don't even know how easy you've got it. I was thinkin' this as I pissed all over my hand tryin' to get some pee, any pee, into the little jar with the ridiculously small opening. Luckily, I'd downed a liter of Dasani before my appointment, so there was plenty o' piss for the jar, my hand, and the water in the toilet. Still, I had a fair amount of cleanup to do before returning to the exam room. I may now be know at Dr. E's office by my new code name: Ol' Piss Fingers. Which is no improvement at all over my previous code name, Ol' Plain Titties.
• More TMI alert! You will all be so jealous to know that the doc gave me some medicine that turns my urine bright, blinding orange. It's very psychedelic and trippy. If you'd like pictures, email me!
• I've tagged myself (and if you'd like pictures, email me)...no, not like that! I am a self tagger from Squirl's latest meme. So my top ten turn ons/turn offs will be forthcoming.
• I was gonna write about the phallus and the orange piss yesterday, but honestly, Squirl lent me her copy of the first Harry Potter book, and I just dug into it last night, and I couldn't put the fucker down! So, if you wanna blame somebody for my lack of a post last night, you can blame Squirl, or JK Rowling. Or my mom for teachin' me to read.
  
• Just now found out Jim and I get to go see Joan Jett and the Blackhearts at the Genesee County Fair next month! I saw them once many, many years ago, when she was tourin' for Up Your Alley, and the drunk next to me on the grass kept shouting: "I love myself for hating you!"
  And you know I will absolutely wear my assless chaps to see Joan. Has there ever been a more appropriate occasion for black leather? I think not. Not that I will write about here, anyway.
  

Take that, biatch!

Between Kindergarten and my bachelor degree, there have been a lot of teachers and professors who've made substantial positive contributions to my development as the person I am now. But I'm not here to write about them. I wanna talk about that bitch they let loose on me in 4th grade.

Her name is Mrs. Prelesnick (prellz-nik) and I can only imagine she was smack in the throes of change o' life when I was assigned to her class. She was moody, sarcastic, and snippy with us - we were ten years old, fer chrissake.

Now, at the time, I was considered one of the Brainiacs in class (see my posts with the heading The Drunk Diaries for proof that this was not true once I got to college), so you'd think I would get a little teacher's-pet deferential treatment. Uh....no. She ragged on my ass just as bad as she did the other kids, maybe even worse sometimes. To be fair, I had already developed a fair amount of the attitude y'all see here every day, but still...I just think she didn't like me. Maybe she couldn't let go of the day I pointed out her misuse of the words "lose" and "loose" in front of the whole class, and then proceeded to get a dictionary and prove her wrong in front of everyone when she tried to shush me. Hmmm, yeah, that might've been it.

Up until the 4th grade, I had more or less been allowed to sit in the room during parent/teacher conferences. Yes, it's true, I was quite the little goody two-shoes until I discovered rock music, and that wouldn't be until the ruining age of 12. So why wouldn't Mrs. P let me sit in on her conference with my mom? I knew I was performing (academically) well ahead of most of the other kids in class. Oh, well, it wasn't that big a deal and I hung out in the hallway until Mom came out.

My mom was actually stifling a laugh as she came out, and even then I knew enough to wait until we were outside to ask.

"What's so funny? What'd she say?" I wanted to know.

She laughed and replied, "She said she found out that we had allowed you to read The Exorcist last year, and she was very concerned."

"What?"

"She said if we allowed that sort of thing, you'd grow up to be on drugs."

Mrs. P's leap of logic brought mother and daughter together for a hearty laugh at the old dried-up cunt's expense.

Now I've grown up (debatable) to be something much, much worse than the drug addict she foresaw: I am a blogger! A vulgar motherfuckin' blogger who's not afraid to tackle jizz and buffalo piss head-on. A $2 whore to the Internet as a Whole.

I wonder if it would make Mrs. P's head explode if I told her I saw her baby daughter smokin' a big ol' doob at a party about seven years later?

Of COURSE I took a picture of it

You can't really see the pee, even if you zoom in (oh, and I tried), but this buffalo was pissin' big time.



You can't even begin to imagine how delighted I was to catch this. Or maybe you can.

It's come to this, has it?

In the previous post, I mentioned that I had rejected the notion of makin' a Cafe Press calendar of myself with a themed toilet pose for each month.

The wise and mildly, and by mildly I mean outrageously and gargantuanly, tumescent Nilbo suggested that I instead create a calendar featuring nude (as in naked, disrobed, au naturale, nekkid) photos of 12 of my favorite bloggers.

Now, in all honesty, I don't think Cafe Press would allow me to make a calendar like this. But I had a few eager responses in the comments on that last post, and it occurred to me that it would be cruel of me to deprive any of you the chance at that dream, the dream of bein' on a Naked Bloggers calendar.

So, I'm proposing this: Go on and send me your best naked pictures of yourself, IF YOURSELF IS OVER THE AGE OF 18 YEARS. I don't guarantee that Cafe Press will allow me to actually make this calendar, of course. Hell, I don't even guarantee that there will be a calendar. But then you will have the satisfaction of tellin' your friends, "My picture is under consideration for a very prestigious calendar, nyah."

What I do guarantee is that for every naked picture I'm sent, someone in my house will be very happy.

Man, I've been hangin' around you sickos for too long now, haven't I?

(Oh, and just in case anyone has read this far and actually taken me seriously, the address is bucky4eyes AT gmail DOT com)

Oh, and for GOD'S SAKE, my siblings are NOT eligible for this calendar!

Got some new junk in my trunk

I've started to work on some new merchandise designs for my Cafe Press store, and I added a new set of t-shirts today.

There will be more products to come in the near future, but Jim has nixed one of my ideas. For some reason, he thinks it would be in bad taste to offer a thong bearing my likeness as a child. Makes me wonder if some of my other ideas might hit a brick wall:

• Coffee mugs featuring actual pictures of real vomit, with a possible motto of "Just like Mom used to make!"
• A teddy bear with a little heart that says "Fuck you, grandma."
• Boxer shorts with bloodstains on the front and a "Just castrated!" logo.
• A mouse pad festooned with fallopian tubes.
• A license plate frame that says "Paying homage to Ray Charles at the wheel"
• A calendar with pictures of me on the toilet in festive settings for each month.

Maybe I shoulda taken some marketing classes in college...

But mooooom, all the other kids are doin' it!

Yes, I've caved once again to peer pressure. And amusement. I have to admit, I get a giggle outta these things.

So...let's see whatchya got, you cheeky monkeys!

Take my fuckin' quiz!

Lazy display of cheesy photos

Well, my efforts to capture all the color in my hair by bein' in sunlight are mixed at best. I vow to try in varying levels of sun this weekend.

Until then, there's this:


Sun...burning...retinas...

And this one:


Blind, I tell you...blind!

And I'm not the only one in the house with a new look, no sir-ee-bub.


See how much he loves it?

This was taken seconds before he shook the horns off and attempted to chew 'em to bits.

Oh, like you could resist

Fucker had it comin'.

Yes, there are some even I wouldn't use

In the last couple of months, I've come to enjoy the process of creating and posting new mastheads. A lot of the fun for a masthead, of course, is pickin' the new slogan. I've used a few now, but you've by no means seen everything that's occurred to me.

Allow me to share a select few of the slogans even I deemed too lame and/or offensive to use:

• "Still yearning for a Captain and Tennille tour."
• "Only a few animals were harmed in the crafting of this blog."
• "Just when you yeast expect it." (accompanied by a picture of baking soda and my favored cooch-scratching implement, an elegant silver crab fork)
  
• "All vomit, all the time."
• "The curley fries are on my thighs." (accompanied by a photo of my frightening, fried-food-enhanced thighs)
  
• "Don't let me drink unless you have a wheelbarrow and a barf bag."
• "If you don't like watchin' penguins get it on, you can't be my friend."
• "Send me money or I'll come to your house and trim your hedges into obscene shapes."
• "Why can't we all just get a schlong?"
• "Real fuckin' funny, motherfucker."

I'm only showing you the least disturbing of the unused ideas. You should probably worry about the way I think.

Tell me the truth

Do these chaps make my ass look big?

Jet lag hag

I think everyone should send me a thank-you note for resisting the urge to write, I just flew in from Chicago, and boy are my arms tired! See how I avoided that altogether?

With my geek training completed, I spent the weekend hangin' out with Jess and bein' an annoyance to society in general and Chicago in particular. She also got to see me at my very most graceful. We were walkin' along, talkin' about pressing matters - I believe I may have been pontificating about the relative merit of using shivering Chihuahuas as sexual devices, and the difficulty in removing the resulting stains from said dogs - when the sidewalk abrubtly and without warning ended and dropped off at least two inches into what must have been a first cousin, once removed, of quicksand. I've always said that if there's a way to fall down, I'll find it, and I did not waver from my philosophy on this occasion. I believe the only way to describe my descent is BAM! My hands took the brunt of the fall (well, and my dignity, which was close to nil in the first place): I scraped the heel of my left hand, and jammed the livin' shit out of my right thumb, which made for this lovely bruise on my palm:





It's amazing I was never a fuckin' ballerina.

Well, I have to confess. I let Jess do something to me I've never let anyone do before. And I've included a picture. I will leave some spoiler space, for those of a delicate nature who do not wish to be shocked and horrified by the subject matter in this photograph.

>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>scroll, Nilbo, scroll!
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space
>spoiler space




That's right, I let her dye my hair. What the fuck did you think I meant? Yep, I'm 40, and I've never pushed my hair color in any direction other than its own until now. She did a really great job with it, and it feels softer and healthier than it did before we started. It's got a lot more auburn and red highlights than you can tell in the picture; I'll have to snap some shots out in the sun when the thunderstorms stop here.

And now I must end my post and give in to the sleep that's been tuggin' on my eyelids since I started to upload my pictures. Night, y'all.

It's all theoretical, of course

I'm going to lay out a completely hypothetical situation for you, because I'm interested to know what y'all would have done in a simlar totally fictional scenario.

Suppose that the alleged people staying in the next room, at an imaginary hotel, had several friends in their room for what appeared to be something between a shindig and a hootenanny. It might have even bordered on a jamboree, given that this quite loud and raucous gathering theoretically continued until at least 4 am this morning.

Now imagine that the person staying in the room next to the jamboree was not amused one bit after about 2 am. And suppose that this person might wake up at 9 am with a taste for extremely loud death metal and hip hop. Or that this person would perhaps innocently stroll past the jamboree room on the way to the vending machines, and somehow the jamboree's "Do Not Disturb" sign might inexplicably end up in this wandering, sleep-deprived person's wallet, causing the maid service to roust the jamboree-ers much earlier than they had hypothetically planned.

Would that be wrong? In theory?

One for the money (shot)

When I'm on the road for this long at any one time, I find it practical to bring along fairly large-sized containers of all my grooming products. Yes, I did just imply that I use products. I'm sure I'd make the Queer Eye guys spontaneously combust if they looked in my bathroom right now and saw what I so loosely call "product." What I'm sayin' is, I find it makes more sense to bring a mammajamma bottle of shampoo than to rely on the miniature droplets that hotels so unconvincingly refer to as "free shampoo." I wanna know I have the hairspray I like to use, and I won't have to settle for some crap in a 7-Eleven that makes my whole head sticky. It makes me feel better to know that there will be toothpaste there when I wake up with dragon mouth.

Carrying all these containers of liquids is just fine and dandy until it all has to be crammed in a suitcase that also contains clothing, souveniers, and other things I don't want doused in conditioner. Therefore, I get those 2.5-gallon zip-lock bags, put all the bottles with liquids in it, and try to keep the bag isolated from that which I prefer to stay dry and clean. It's always just been a precaution up until now. This time 'round, I'm very glad that I'm at least prissy about this one thing.

I use a face cleansing liquid which was recommended to me by my dermatologist. I went out and found the Walgreen's brand of the same cleanser, in a bottle twice the size and half the price of the brand he wanted me to buy. So of course I brought it along on the trip, since my face was gonna be here, too.



I've found that this bottle comes open with little provocation. More than once, it has leaked onto the other contents of the bottle bag, and it looks like nothing so much as a jizz-o-rama gone horribly out of control:





I've had to wash the shampoo, and the conditioner, and the deodorant, you get the idea, more than once since I left home. I think it heard that it was gonna be used for a facial, and, well, it got the wrong idea.


That money shot was half price.

Follow my logic

I've always heard it said that idle hands are the devil's workshop. Which I think is cool, so long as everyone wears eye protection.

I just wonder what exactly had to be idle to become the Devil's Tower.



To my way of thinkin', that's one huge, idle tallywhacker.

Hey, I never, ever promised you high-quality posts from the road.

I'm too sexy for my kitchenette.

The bitch is back

Sorry, thought I'd keep in the Elton John mode with Squirl.

I have computer power now, of a sort. It's enough. I exchanged the hellishly defective power supply today. Imagine my delight when the LED actually lit up, and the power light on my laptop popped on when I plugged it in. Imagine my annoyance when my computer insisted on 90 watts instead of the 70 it was being supplied.

The good news is, it charged up my batteries, and seems to be continuing to do so as I work. I can live with this. I missed you guys!

Jim and I drove all the way across Minnesota on I-90. Here is my most enduring memory of Minnesota:



This is what we saw at every single rest stop along that stretch of highway in Minnesota. Every fucking one was closed. We decided Minnesota needed a new motto. Jim suggested "Minnesota: Get used to disappointment." My thought was "Minnesota: Cross your legs and move along now." No offense to any Minnesotans who may be reading this. Man, I hope Prince doesn't come 'round and thwack on me with his purple parasol. Well...on second thought, maybe I hope he does.

I am now in possession of power for my computer, a hairbrush, face powder, and underwear galore. More panties than you can shake a panty stick at. My wander through the mall made me bitchy as all fuckin' get out, and I can't say I wasn't sorely tempted when I turned the corner and beheld a tobacco shop. The little Devil Bucky on my shoulder kept sayin' "Awww, come on, nobody will know. It's just one. Don't be a pussy!" For the record, I put Smokin' Satan behind me and kept on goin'. But I did lust in my heart after those cigars. Say it with me: Ma-ca-nuuuuuuu-do. Mmmmmmmmm.

Did I mention that my toilet flooded yesterday morning, just before I left for class? It's not quite as disgusting as it sounds - the flushing mechanism had come detached, and my dumbass self decided it was a good idea to take the lid off the tank and do the flush by hand. Well, somebody who's a dumbass looked away at the wrong moment, for apparently too long a dumbass moment, and suddenly heard the water cascading from the tank onto the tile. That sound was followed by an enthusiastic dumbass tabernacle choir chorus of "Motherfucker!"s and "Cocksucker!"s and a mad scramble for towels.

Luckily, maintenance worked their magic, and my toilet flushes like a good little toilet now. I was so happy I began to emit a heavenly glow, as evidenced by this picture:


This should be a good start to my campaign for sainthood.

I'm sure I had more to say, but now that I have the chance, damned if I can think of it. I may, in fact, be back later. I may be a serial poster tonight. If I can't have my cigars, dammit, at least let me blog!

Comedy of errors

This would be funny if it were happening to someone else. Please, let this be happening to someone else!

This week will be spent in intensive geek training, to which Jim dropped me off on his way home. This morning, after I woke up at the last possible minute to go to class, I realized that I had managed to misplace my hairbrush (kind of important - have you seen this thing I call my "hair"?), my face powder (to keep makeup from melting instantly), enough underpants for the week, and, most importantly, the power cord for my laptop. Yes, I'm on batteries right now, and the little indicator is makin' me nervous.

I took a cab to Circuit City today to get a replacement power cord. I wound up having to buy a whole power adaptor, and now that I have it back in my room, it does not work.

So, here's my "yes, I'm still alive and my ass hasn't dropped off the face of the earth" post, and when I can get some reliable power for my laptop, I'll make with the funny again.

You know, funny to me.

No tub, but high speed in my room

I should've remembered from our trip to Memphis a few years ago: Sleep Inn motel rooms don't have bathtubs in 'em. But this one has what none of my rooms has had on this trip: high-speed internet!

We're in Sioux Falls, South Dakota tonight. I did all the drivin' today, from Rapid City, and I have to say I'm feelin' less than literarily inspired. Allow me to instead fling a few pictures your way (I'm told a picture is worth a thousand words, but it won't do shit for you when you're gettin' paid by the word).

Here's my first view of Mount Rushmore as we drove into the park the night we got in (if you look at the large photo, you can see some prez faces off to the left:





Now, on to more pressing business: the business of assless chaps, the running theme of, apparently, my life. I was asked once if pink chaps exist. In Deadwood, I found proof positive that pink leather is alive, well, and something I will never put against my body if I have a choice in the matter:



I don't think the pictures do justice to the gaudy neon glow of my sunburn, but here it is for the sake of full disclosure and historical documentation:



You can see where my camera strap was. I am a geek. I burned the bejeezus out of my tattoo, also, which annoys the fuck out of me because it was so totally avoidable:





Yesterday was a day chock full o' sights. We started off the morning by headin' to Wyoming to see Devil's Tower, then we came back through Spearfish Canyon, and finally, we spent a few hours in Deadwood (as evidenced by the aforementioned pink chaps). They stage gunfights in the middle of Main Street at regular intervals, and as the faux gunfire rang out, I joked to Jim, "Hell, we came on vacation to get away from the gunfire in the streets." Completely kidding. A kindly lady heard me and turned around, a concerned look on her face.

"Where are you from?" she inquired, no doubt so she could avoid it as a future vacation destination.

"Just north of Detroit," Jim replied, doin' a tremendous job of holdin' back the laughter I knew was simmerin' just under the surface.

Nice Lady patted Jim on the arm and said, "Well, God bless you, I hope you have a relaxing vacation." And then she hurried off, presumably so she wouldn't be in the line of fire if any of our homies spotted us. Then we let the laughter bubble and it was good.

As I keep reiterating, I have many, many pictures of South Dakota's natural photogenicism, and they will be posted when I damn well feel like it. Tonight would not be that time. I will instead leave you with a shot of Devil's Tower:




For the record, I was not drawn here by any strange compulsion, and did not sculpt any mashed potatoes leading up to this visit.

My ass is displayed better than my hair

Here sits my chapless ass in my favorite wireless Burger King, and I think the first thing you should know is this: I sunburned my tits today. Not to the point where it looks like I've got bacon on my rack, and not on the nipples or anything, but my cleavage got just a little pan fried in the Badlands today.

Now that we've got that out of the way, let's talk about Wall Drug. All the way across South Dakota, there were signs upon signs upon signs with odd little advertisements for Wall Drug, but no real location. This went on for hundreds of miles before an actual exit was advertised. I have to say, if you can see all that, and you don't stop to see what all the fuss is, then your level of curiosity is sub-par and you can't be my buddy.

We stopped at Wall Drug on our way into Rapid City, but I just felt like the experience was missing, I don't know, a certain something. (No singing!)

Today I figured out what it was we were missing: Assless chaps. We went back to Wall Drug this morning.



I think Jim was enjoying the photographing of my ass just a little too much.



After our little sashay around Custer state park yesterday, Jim was feelin' just a little chummy with the buffalo.




Personally, I was just wonderin' where the big bunny's correspondingly large genitalia was.



Oh, like YOU wouldn't wonder, too!

And I could think of no better tribute to a badly replicated scale model of a national treasure than to salute it with my beloved but often misunderstood chaps.




Satisfied that we had acted stupid in Wall Drug for exactly the correct amount of time, we proceeded on to the next leg of our journey, the Badlands. Like my Mount Rushmore pictures, I have lots and lots of Badlands pictures that I will upload when I feel like bein' serious. That might not be until I get home. We'll see. In the meantime, I can tell you it was gorgeous, breathtaking, and extremely windy.



Even Jim couldn't contain his hair today.



I mentioned it was windy, right?



Tomorrow: Welcome to fuckin' Deadwood.

I see Internet!

Can you hear the sigh emanating from deep down where my soul might be if I were a normal person? I have just found high-speed wireless in the wilderness.

Jim and I pulled in to Rapid City, South Dakota yesterday afternoon, and I found that my usual dialup connection would not work from the (very inexpensive) room we had booked. Not only that, my Nextel hasn't had a signal since we left Iowa. I have felt curiously disconnected in a way I don't think existed before I began to blog.

I know I've written precious little about my visit with the intrepid Jessica Rabbit. Don't know how much I can add to the whole Brad Pitt-raping scenario, but let me try. Jim and I were made to feel at home immediately, by our hostess, by her sons, by her crazy puppy, and most importantly, by the cat horde. The night was a giggle fest, not unlike what you might hear from a room full of teenage girls giving each other bad perms. I'm unsure on whether Jim and Nick ever got a word in edgewise; they likely talked amongst themselves, but Jess and I were far too busy plotting evil events to notice. Events that will make the world piss its collective pants. A groovy time was had! (And shame on you, Susie Fairchild, for startin' the pussy comments)

We then visited my sister-in-law in Iowa, which was a great time. It's been too long since I've seen her, and we traded some stories that I....well, just don't think I can discuss here, for the sake of propriety. But we had a really good visit.

Our next stop was Murdo, South Dakota. Why the fuck did we pick Murdo? No reason. We looked on the map and said, that looks like a good place to stop. There is nothing in Murdo save for an antique car roadside attraction, a motel, a gas station, and a diner with semi-edible food. As we ate our breakfast on the morning of our departure, we heard a fellow diner intone loudly about "liberal trash" from a table several away. Because I am on vacation, I behaved myself, and didn't give him any dirty looks, or say anything out loud about how he was the cream of American manhood, sittin' there lookin' like the byproduct of a walrus' drunken booty call to the trailer park. I'll just whisper it to you, the Internet as a Whole.

The ride from Murdo to Rapid City is a short one, and per Susie's recommendation, we stopped to behold Wall Drug. All I can say is, I will post the pictures later this week. It is a feast/overload for the eyes. And yes, I rode the mighty jackalope.

Today was quite a sight seein' day. I have many pictures to post, but will only post a few right now, 'cause that's just the kind of tease I am. Plus, I don't know how long I can nurse this Dr. Pepper before they throw me outta Burger King for wireless loitering.

This was next to a huge boulder in front of Mount Rushmore (yes, the Presidential Lineup pictures are forthcoming - wouldnt' you rather look at me for now? Of course you would)


We walked down the presidential trail at Mount Rushmore, which takes you up to the base of the mountain, so you're lookin' right up at the sculpture. Right up their noses. Yes, there are up-the-nose pictures to be posted later.

Then we drove down to Custer State Park. Before we were even in the park proper, we were greeted by a roving pack of wild donkeys, who stopped by the car and terrorized us with rude faces.



A little farther down the road, traffic was splendidly interrupted by a large herd of gorgeous buffalo.



I took many pictures of them, which you will also see soon.

After we had driven through Custer, we headed out to see the current progress on the Crazy Horse Memorial. The sky was really startin' to look pretty threatening, so we opted out of the bus ride to the base of the mountain.



I really hope to see this finished someday, or at least, see some progress beyond the face.

I promise to post more pictures tomorrow, now that I have found my haven of wireless hookup. Now I have to go back to the room and fight Jim for bathtub rights. The eucalyptus milk bath is callin' to me.

Badlands tomorrow, and possibly another stop by Wall Drug. Because it's just that tacky and delightful. Like me.

My heart has been stolen

Pimp Daddy Roo

I walked in expecting to abduct Livey, Weebs, Baby Nala, and the puppy. Now I think I may have to add Roo to my list.

I need a bigger suitcase next time I go through that way...

Muffins

Every pirate needs a parrot. Weebs says "Ahoy, matey!"

It's late, we drove all day, and it's takin' me for-fucking-ever to post pictures over dialup. Argh! Jess has already told the story better than I could have over on her site, I'll have more to say, but it shan't be tonight.

Let me just say one thing: Jess made us fresh, hot, banana nut and blueberry muffins. I will be back.