Driving to Thailand in the Van

Early morning winter came in all its sun-dappled pageantry as Paul's scream spread like dawning..."Reach out from the dark, wake up from the cold, wake up, wake up, it's here again!" Suddenly Paul was silenced, some might say, by a precious-little-pistol-beating administered by Satan (I mean Jeff) who ranted incoherently (the only coherent thing being a terribly disjointed "tangerine") whilst Paul (who gets even) kicked him in the head, knocked him down, and ripped the handle off...again. "One more bottle" moaned David, as revidescent(?) as ever, curtains wrapped around his body, mind-numbing dreams of Tequila, Jagermeister, and Goldschlager dancing (Paul) in his head (however what he feels in his head is an enormous hole). It seems poor David is a victim of the cold parade, and perhaps a mid-bender discussion with a Detroit dumpster. Mark, cut to wallet-size and tied up with wire (obviously a victim of the famous sharpened cup of tainted wine) is bent out of shape at being awakened too late (after all, sleep can't save him). Kevin is convulsing outside the window in the fetal position (cold is only in the blood) in a vain attempt to imitate David's dancing to Stan's (or is that Ian, road manager and mother figure's) harmonica.

Jeff, found lying on the floor, decides to drag David out of pleasure's bed in his nakedness (every line and crack exposed)...however he is frightened by David's own sweet smell (mmmm...lemony fresh!) leaving an opportunity for the vengeful David to strip Jeff, and his questionable morality, from the top down. Since almost all were half-naked (or is that half-Thai?), Paul, screaming "I will control" (not to be confused with the invisible David screaming for God's undivided attention) herds the rest, almost like Banff elk with stickers on their butts, into the pee-can to wash the wreckage out and clean the places where they were undone. David emerges first, after lengthy quality time with his hairbrush and dental floss, galvanized by pissing on his own Marxist philosophy, and retreats to a location unknown. Next come Kevin (still violently twitching), Paul (still reeling from an unweildy drumstick), and Jeff (almost finished snacking on unsuspecting houseflies).

Finally after hours of playing a spirited game of "I'll-show-you-my-inner-demons-and-pathetic
-self-loathing-if-you-show-me-yours" Mark (the master of delay and rubber gloves) emerges from the throne, depraved of his piss and vinegar, and much too hungover to play the unwashed savior in the game with the others. Anxious to go screaming down the highway with a pocket full of quarters looking for an Esso with a frozen burrito bar, they gather the pieces up, and as Kevin checks Mark to see that he is turned off, unplugged, and wrapped in a fire-proof blanket, Paul and Jeff search for a sense of absolution (especially Jeff), the combination food processor/clock radio/telephone/dog neutering machine (seemingly always worn, broken, or dead - thanks David) that they got with their subscription to Life magazine, and the all-powerful Shop-Vac with hose attachment (after all doesn't everyone need a fabulous machine to suck?), however strangely not searching for the missing skinny long-haired half-a-sissy radical with a snot rag on his head. After finally finding David in the parking lot hiding behind the van wearing nothing but sunglasses and a saucy grin and playing with his scar, the five musicians, cloaked in an air of uncertainty (and as an addition the sadistic caffeine-deprived Stan) pile into the van, taking care not to sit on Stan's flashlight because 1) No one wants even one beam of sunlight to stream from their ass and ruin the ambiance of the pit they've dug for themselves, and 2) No one wants Stan's flashlight to be missing, as Stan's wrath is worse than Jeff's before sacrificing a virgin (himself). And then they drove...

DAY FOUR:

But what about days two and three, you ask?.....Bender.
The Ocean (Newfoundland)...
Mark: "That ocean sure is moist."
Dave: "Sure is."
Kevin: "Yep."
Jeff: "Zzzzzzzzzzz"
Paul: "Watch yer dog swim away for three days. Watch yer dog swim away for three days. Watch yer dog..."
Mark: "Sure is moist."

DAY FIVE

Customs officials are trying to figure out how Mark got into this country in the first place before they will consider letting him leave it. Attempts at deportation failed, Mark packs rubber gloves as souvenir. After taking the van to Magnetic Hill for some good times and an experiment to see if tequila will also move on its own given sufficient motivation, they proceed to Signal Hill to observe trip route via the Atlantic. However, upon seeing its soon-to-be-moist-grave, "Machine knows damn stupid tour routing when Machine sees it" and immediately embarks on the "Machine pissed off, Machine go home now tour".

THE END