It is a long drive from Indy to Minneapolis, and you can rest assured that we ran into any number of shady elements to overcome and useful information to aid us in our quest along the way.
Before leaving Indianapolis, we felt it necessary to stop at a gas station to purchase energy drinks, snacks, and a pop refill, as it had been a late night the night before and would require some added caffeine. Then, we took off on the carefree highway, up I-65 to Chicago.
To pass the early morning hours, Jeff and I turned our attention to business concerns. Using Jeff's special Portable Computer Tech-no-logy, we were able to devise a business plan that would give us a controlling interest in a shady real estate cartel. By setting up HQ in a hotel on New York Avenue, we were able to run Elisabeth out of the market. This gave us previously forbidden access to Illinois Avenue, and it was only a matter of time until our other rival, whose name eludes me, fell.
Feeling proud of ourselves and rather overhydrated from the morning's caffeine binge, we stopped at a Rest Area somewhere in the vicinity of Crown Point, IN. After making use of the facilities, we found a marker that let us know that we were treading on hallowed ground. This, it seems, was no mere Rest Area, but actually a shrine to Casimir Pulaski. Gen. Pulaski was a Polish Cavalry Commander who fought on the side of the rebels in the Revolutionary War. He was more teacher than commander, and left the Americans with a font of knowledge on how cavalry tactics before he was killed in the Battle of Savannah. It seems that Big Poland's special interest group had finally lobbied the Indiana House to name this stretch of I-65 the "Casimir Pulaski Memorial Highway" to honor Polish-Americans everywhere, despite the fact that Gen. Pulaski was not a Polish-American himself and never set foot anywhere near northwest Indiana. Nevertheless, there is a high percentage of people in that area with names like Macsymczak, Grziewoski, and, uh, Jurgis Rudkus, that they got the highway. We pressed on, comforted by the fact that the spirit of Casimir Pulaski would guide us on our trip and keep us safe, so long as we avoided any stray regiments of British regulars.
Chicago was next. We didn't go near it. Instead, we took the pricey and long toll road around it. It was a drag. We stopped for lunch at Wendy's. There were a couple of attractive women lounging around outside, but we didn't talk to them, because they appeared to be some form of meth whore.
Somewhere between Chicago and the Wisconsin border, we began surfing for a radio station, and found a bizarre comedy sketch entitled "Arlen Specter Gadget." It featured the Inspector Gadget theme sung but replaced with Arlen Specter Gadget. The episode revolved around Arlen Specter Gadget's attempts to get Alberto Gonzalez to testify. My favorite part, which is also the only part I remember, went like this:
Arlen Specter Gadget: Attorney General Gonzalez is refusing to testify? Go, Go, Gadget Subpoena! Not so 'speedy' now, are you, Gonzalez?
Penny: Arlen Specter Gadget, you are racist.
I have found no other proof of existence of this clip. But we were saying "Go Go Gadget Subpoena!" for the entire course of the trip.
On to Wisconsin! We stop again shortly after crossing into the Cheesehead State, once we see a town called Milton. Milton is a very small redneck town right between the hick towns that Jeff and I are from, so we felt the need to stop. In the bathroom, on the wall, was the following message:
"Zionist Support Kanites!"
Jeff and I deduced that any place called Milton has to have some form of illiterate redneck white supremecists. The convenience store also sold nightcrawlers, apparently by the ton, as there was a gigantic and huge backroom filled with what appeared to be spawning pools for them. I purchased a Diet Coke Plus. The cashier informed me that the total was "Wahhne Ohhh Fohhrrr," and I felt for the first time, that we were way up north.
We didn't stop for a long time after that, for fear of being accused of being either a Zionist, or a Kanite, whatever the hell that is. We finally did stop, much much later, in a town called New Lisbon, which is also the name of a hick town near the hick town where I live. The people seemed much friendlier here. And when I say friendlier, I mean friendlier, as evidenced by this tag from a flier on the filling station's bulletin board:
"Jasmine's Fun Care: One hour free with 4 hours paid"
Believe you me, had we 5 hours to spare, we most assuredly would've called the number on the back of this tag and asked for Jasmine herself. Sure, the flier said it was a baby-sitting service, but that's surely a code to assure you that someone will watch your kids while receiving your fun care.
But hookers aside, we continue our journey. For much of this leg, Jeff is knee deep in fun-filled text-messaged drama, drama I will not get into in this space, since I deal solely in my own. And the only part I played in this drama was that a blog post I wrote in my old diaryland journal spawned a good deal of it, since an interested party assumed I was pretty much awesome by my writing style. Which is understandable, since that particular entry included the phrase "estrogenic incursion," which I cannot utter without giggling to myself.
After a few more hours, we arrive in Minnesohhhta, and face a traffic jam. The twin cities are roughly the size of Indianapolis, and has a much better mass transit system, but somehow congestion is much, much worse than anything Nap Town commuters experience. Regardless, we arrive soon enough, and new plots began to unfurl.
Next: Truckies, The Canadian Mall in America, Androgyny, Quality Hair Care, The Adventures of Chair, The Magna Carta, sexy snooty women, and possibly more!
