“I’m trading you two in for good kids,” my dad bellowed to Chickenbone and I one summer day long ago after we’d been acting up.
Interventions.
After our parents divorced, Chickenbone and I spent summers at my father’s house in Carlsbad, California. We were generally allowed to run amok during the day while he was at work, or sometimes we would spend days at our grandparents house nearby. We loved the freedom, but we also got bored after a while.
We were shocked. “Trade us in? What do you mean?”, one of us asked.
“I’m trading you two in. As soon as the catalog comes in the mail, I’m going to trade you two in for good kids.”
Ok, so I didn’t really lose my shirt. Mostly because I didn’t have enough money to gamble with in the first place. But it was fun, and I got to check another state, and another Largest/Smallest oddity off my bucket list.
Pye wanted to try gambling. I figured she’d done enough of that the time she stowed away in the RV chassis for 150 miles.
Christmas in a Casino – It’s not sinning if you’re winning.
Yup, I spent Christmas in a casino. But it wasn’t just any casino: WinStar World Casino is the largest casino in the U.S. It’s in Thackerville, Oklahoma, just across the Texas border on Highway 35.
Some folks considered gambling on Christmas blasphemous. I’m not one of them. And it seems I’m not alone – the place was booked solid. There were no more rooms available.
I went with a friend from the RV park in Pizzaville (population: 12, probably). We met up with my sweet Calif/Texan friend. I lost all my money. They both won. A lot.
Last we left off, my coworker “Spiderman” found someone to whom he could pimp his spider out for a long weekend in Dallas, was requesting transportation to Dallas for his horny male spider.
You new folks may still not realize I do not make this stuff up. Hang around a while and you’ll see little corners of the world you did not know, or perhaps ever wanted to know, existed. You’re welcome.I consider this a service in line with Public Service Announcements.
Back to the pimpin out of one of Spiderman’s numerous (30+ and growing) spiders.
We may rejoice! The spider is getting laid. The ride for the horny spider to spend a long weekend with a female of the same species has finally taken place.
As I mentioned in a previous post, Spiderman was quickly able to find a nearby mate for his spider through Facebook. Facebook is the place to hook your spider up for a weekend away with other spiders.
Mark Zuckerberg must be proud. When he helped create Facebook, he was probably thinking it would be a great arena for humans to hook up. Little did he know…
Fear not, my dear Kernutties, fans of Breaking Bad, Walter White is alive and well and living in Texas… posing as my boss.
But before we get to that, let’s recap what the new job has been like over the last few months:
In my first couple weeks there, I was quarantined with Roscoe the Racoon. (The update to that post is here.)
Also living in the office was a giant (pet) katydid, Cletus. In addition, one coworker, Spiderman, has over 30 pet spiders, six pet snakes, centipedes, lizards, gekkos, and probably a bunch of other stuff it’s better I not know about.
For those of you following the Spider Prostitution ring, as of a couple weeks ago the spider had not yet been pimped out for the hot weekend in Dallas, nor the trip to New Mexico. (I have no idea what the delay might be, but I’m starting to feel sorry for the little guy. He just wants some lovin’.) I will keep you posted should he get laid.
Meanwhile, I did discover the source of the Spider Prostitution Network…But, wait! There’s more…
This is another episode of Tales From the RV Park, stories from the RV parks where I’ve camped. Disclaimer: These stories are fictitious, happened in nightmares, are hearsay, and/or are what others recounted to me. I am part Irish, so there is likely a good deal of exaggeration. The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent. There is no relation to persons living, dead, or in jail, even if you think so. In other words, don’t bother trying to sue me.
It’s a shame you can’t buy common sense like you can buy deodorant.
Perpetually Plastered (first introduced here) has done it again.
But let me back up a bit… Perpetually Plastered got his first DUI at 13. Yes, thirteen years old. He wasn’t legally old enough to drive, let alone drink. I learned this when I ran a little background check on him and came across an old newspaper article from his home town. The arresting officer was quoted as saying, ‘I think this may be some kind of record. I don’t think I’ve ever arrested someone this young for a DUI.’ The fact that a juvenile’s (PP at the time) name was printed in the article is surprising, but there it was. He got another DUI at the age of 18 in the same town. But, wait! There’s more…
There is a post coming on the Squirrel Obstacle Course, but I’ve been too busy to edit the video. So all I’ve got for you is a generic update of randomness. Your excitement is palpable, even from here.
You’re really wondering about the naked people, aren’t you? Don’t worry, that wasn’t just a catchy title, they’re coming. Err, umm, maybe they already did? I don’t know, I didn’t get to ask them.
RV Slide-out Issues
The living room slide on my RV has issues. It probably needs therapy, but I can’t find an RV shrink within 100 miles. There is only one, yes ONE, RV technician willing to make the long drive to this town with ten a hundred cows for every human. When describing the problem to him, his answer didn’t exactly exude confidence. I can tell he’s never encountered a problem like this one before. Crap.
I can’t close the slide to drive it to the shop over an hour away in which I have more confidence (it’s Camping World, but they don’t do mobile).
In Winnebagos with a couch attached to the living room slide-out, the carpet under the couch is covered in a sheet of clear, thick plastic (like Visqueen). This wraps around under the slide to protect the other carpet that’s part of the house/coach floor.
Most of this plastic/visqueen has come lose, rolled up under the slide, and is sticking out of the weatherstripping on the outside. (see photo) When I attempted to pull it out all the way, I realized part of it is still attached, AND a glide/slide-out strip (probably used to help glide the slide smoothly) has also come lose.
On my way to Texas, I stopped in Tombstone, Arizona, home of the infamous OK Corral. No longer the dangerous, wild western town for which it’s so well known, it has become an off-the-beaten-path tourist trap stop.
Downtown Tombstone, Arizona… seems a little quiet.
Calipatria, in southern California, boldly claims to hold such distinctions as possessing the “World’s Tallest Flagpole” and being the “Lowest Down City Below Sea Level in the Western Hemisphere”.
The population is around 7,700. That includes the 4,000 inmates at the Calipatria State Prison. If you’re as good at math as I am, you’ve already figured out more than half the population consists of incarcerated criminals.
I only take you guys to the best places.
While the library is the size of some apartments I’ve lived in, it still has several internet access stations.
As I walked toward the intersection, a young gal was leading her cow across the street. Yup, she was out walking her cow. On a leash.
Calipatria is known locally as “CowPat” because of all the cows, and more to the point, because of their numerous patties, the pungent scent from which is often blown all the way to Slab City, a beefy 12 miles away.
Calipatria, California: Lowest Down City and World's Tallest Flagpole - according to the local government. Who just may have escaped from the local prison.
The scene: An empty two-lane highway at 8:30 pm on a Wednesday night.
My car: The nice tow car previously pictured, carrying two blond-haired white people (me and the aforementioned house guest) slowly driving back to their campsite in Slab City after a day at the nearby RV park pool, hanging with sober people. (The sober part will be of significance further in the story.)
Behind us: A car is tailgating. For almost 15 minutes.
They could easily go around us on the empty highway.
A couple extra white lights come on over their roof. Then the side spotlight as seen on cop cars comes out. Within seconds a red light comes on, so I pull over.
Two dimwitted Border Patrol agents creep up on the right side, stop about ten feet away, and peer towards the interior of the car, fear and suspicion on their face. But, wait! There’s more…
This post is a mish-mash of the highlights from the beginning of my new year, much of which seems like an episode of the Twilight Zone.
I’m not able to post as frequently as I’d like since I’m on the road in remote locations. My internet is spotty and electrical hookups aren’t always available. That’s what boondocking is like. And you all know how I feel about the boondocking.
Ladies and Gentlemen, next stop The Twilight Zone…
Caution: Reality Ahead (but it only *looks* like reality)
A house guest, I have one.
For a few weeks. Holy Shatner! I can’t believe it, either. This one seems to be a very good one. One who cleans up, and helps around the rig with BBQs and hooking up the new toad. We are heading toward Arizona for a couple weeks before my house guest returns to their home state. [The name of said house guest is withheld to protect their reputation (notice I didn’t say ‘to protect the innocent’) because associating with me might, well, you know, not be good for someone’s reputation. Besides, we’re still trying to decide who is the Gypsy and who is the Tramp.] But, wait! There’s more…
