Last night, I signed the biggest check I’ve ever written… in exchange for handing over my balls. The recipient was so touched that he decided to give us a minivan in return! I’d like to think that having a DVD player that will exclusively show “Top Gun,” “Gladiator,” “Braveheart,” and “Dances With Wolves” will help in my gradual reacquisition of the right to never again go by my new Indian name of “Sits When He Pees,” but I don’t have to ask my predominantly parental readers whether or not that plan will ever actually come to fruition. Maybe if I invite some of my OIF veteran friends down for another trip to Atlanta Motor Speedway. Otherwise, I’m afraid it’s going to be all Disney, all the time.
Immediately after the three hours of haggling that concluded our six-hour trip to Woodstock, GA (the only dealer in metro Atlanta that had not sold out of the Honda minivans advertised on their websites), Pretty Bride and I went across the street to Taco Mac, where I downed 15 “three mile island” hot wings and some Pickaxe beer. I almost sprouted a chest hair. Almost.
It rides nicely and all (though I’m not used to describing an inanimate object in such fashion), but I’ve always thought if I were ever lucky enough to sit at the helm of a vehicle called “Odyssey,” I’d have on a G-suit. And a bunch of furry minions would handle all my navigating and the necessary gassing up at shady stops along Uranus’s moons.
My next door neighbor, who grew up in the not-so-kind-to-gay-boys Florida panhandle, suggested I reclaim my virility by doing the “scooter poop” in one of the numerous back seats. As soon as I figure out what the hell that means, I’m there.