Tim Case Reports in:

Dear Mike…

Next time I suggest that Felicia Fox and I are driving to Los Angeles from Dayton (or the other way around) please slap me upside the head. We departed Los Angeles at 11am Friday (that’s 2pm EST for you Georgia redneck folk) and headed east with high hopes. Bubba was fed and bathed, Fifi was in her black sports bra and blaze orange thong with silver stripper heels, and I was in my jeans and Tool ball cap, rested and ready for action. Last night, somewhere on I-70 in rural Indiana, about an hour from Dayton, I found myself hallucinating badly. Fifi was sacked out with the dog in the back seat — we’d been arguing for seventeen straight hours. The cd player was grinding away, pounding out Jimmy Buffett’s classic “A1A” album for the third straight rotation. Life really is just a tire swing. Two days of filling station food and 36 solid hours of interstate driving, with my only break being a four-hour napping jag outside Amarillo, had reduced me to a quivering mass of protoplasm disguised as an unwashed suitcase pimp.
Suddenly, from the opposite side of the road, huge pink diamondback snakes the size of the Lincoln Tunnel began crossing the highway, tongues testing the road as they came. Rabid bats, the approximate size and shape of DC-10s, swooped down out of the cloudless Indiana night sky, threatening to pick up the van and carry us off to parts unknown.
A hitchhiker waved and smiled at me as I crossed over into Ohio, with a sign that read “Sheboygan or bust”. His face writhed, a mass of grubworms, his thumb a construction of bare bones.Along about the time I hit I-75, the radio began speaking directly to me, in a voice that sounded eerily like Dirty Bob.

I don’t know, I guess it was just the fatigue. Either that or all that cough medicine I drank back in Missouri. Next time, I’m taking the train.

Dude you need to burn that Tool cap before someone respectable like Skeeter sees ya