Gay Valhalla Part 2

So before I forget what fun I had, I'm gonna just jot what Tim and I did for the rest of the week at Ptown down.
Sunday night we saw Hedda Lettuce, she is a funny, green bitch! She sang such marvelous songs as "Botox Face" to the tune of "Poker face" by Lady Gaga, "She's got a fanny pack" to the tune of Justin Timberlake's "She's bringing sexy back" and also my personal favorite, "You can't drink with a dick in your mouth". Tim and I sat close to the stage so we could get a good view of the action. In retrospect, it's kind of a bad idea to sit up close to a drag queen when she's preforming. You inadvertently wind up "participating" in the show. I was deemed the "Water Bitch", which meant I had to hold her water bottle and whenever she said "Water, Bitch" I had to hand it to her so her parched manish lips and deep voice could be quenched. She was such a hoot that I bought her CD. If I can figure out how to put stuff up, I'll put up her song "You can't drink with a dick in your mouth".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4BJtGatuBQ is Hedda's "Botox Face"

We went to the beach a few more days and got our crisp brown on. Fun times!

We had a romantic, rainy dinner at a wonderful restaurant where you can actually color with crayons on the table! I tried to compete with the people who were sitting next to us, but their artistic talent beat out my autistic talent. Oh well, I still had fun!

We went shopping! I bought an hour glass for myself and my friend Anthony. Now I can literally watch my life slip away one grain of sand at a time.

I bought a cupcake from a stranger on the side of the road! As I was eating Tim's cupcake (the guy was named Tim) I thought "Fuck, I could make a better cupcake than this! This tastes like a goddamn hastily done box mix with a pepto bismol colored, jackass cream frosting decorated by caffeinated-Parkinson's-patient cupcake! Fuck, I want my 2 dollars back!
I saw Bob the queeny judge from "The next food network star!". He was vacationing in Ptown! Tim and I went to a cool little bar that was located across from Purgatory (the bar, not the plane of dead unwed mothers, unbaptised babies, homosexuals, Jews, the Irish, Ronald McDonald, and shopping at the grocery store on Saturday. Not entirely evil, but not good enough to get into Catholic heaven) that served some killer drinks. It was pretty nice! It was classy and all the twinky trash gets turned away at the door. We learned about this place from the nice guy behind the counter at the leather sex toy bear shop. He was nice and told us we should check it out so we did.
Anyway, Bob. I saw him across the room, and I thought "Do I bowl with that guy? I think I do, I should say hi, he looks familiar". The question as to how I knew him was answered when we bumped into some of my gay bowling buddies. I asked them who he was, and drunken Jim McDonald (in between gawking at Tim and doing his best to seduce him infront of me "Heyyouguisschwantohangoutschometime? ::seductive heavy lidded eye implications placed here:;) said "Oh that's the guy from the next food network star".
AH-HA! I knew I knew you, ya big queen!
So I hemmed and hawed all night about going to say hello and get a picture from him. I finally figured "Hell, the guy only weighs about 90lbs. If he gets upset that I want his picture I'll push him down, take his drink, and leave. Maybe urinate on him to exert my dominance over him."
I pulled Tim over to where he was standing and I tapped him on the shoulder. He is somewhat famous, what with being someone who is on a sub prime cable show for about 10 minutes at a time, so I became nervous.
"Can I get a picture of you?" I asked. Not Hello, not "Hey you look like a silver fox". Can I get a picture of you. That's one for the annuls of time you smooth talker.
"Sure!" and he turned around and Tim snapped a photo of us. He then asked me my name, and he said "Nice to meet you! I'm Bob! Have a nice night!".
What a nice gentleman. There will be photo's to come.
Now we come to the section of "Why we cut our vacation short by 1 night".
Thursday night into Friday morning, a terrible front had moved in. It decided to dump 1 inch of rain and have gusting, icy cold blasts of air rush at us all night long. The wind and rain were so loud we couldn't get to sleep. Tim and I were just laying there, on our slowly deflating aerobed, watching the tent vibrate back and forth, just wondering and waiting for the thing to collapse in on us.
Tim, in his meek voice, asked "Do you think we'll be safer in the car?" to which I promplty replied "We're safe here, nothing'll happen. Just go to sleep". I'd used the tone of voice that my Father reserves for my Mother when she asks him to pull over and ask for directions. Obviously I knew where I was and I knew we would sort of be safe.
About 20 minutes went by, and Hurricane CockBlock decided to pick up the pace and punish us like I punish a toilet after spicy Thai/Mexican fusion food: Horribly and with lots of gaseous shit flying around.
I decided to do what all men in my situation would do: Ignore it. That is until I pulled the covers up around my chest, and felt icy cold fingers of wetness grasp my toes. The bottom of the blanket was completely soaked in water.
This tent. This muther fuckin' tent. This army-surplus, government job, slap dash, economical, insect attracting, limp dick, made in Poland out of a goddamn sieve, fucking tent... was leaking.
Not just a little water. No, why have a little water when you're camping? Go for the whole experience. It was a goddamn bathtub of water. Our tissue box was floating. No lie. I wanted to cling to the deflating airbed to use as a life raft, but of course it failed at that like it failed at keeping my fat ass off the floor. I reached for our camp-lamp and put my foot down only to hear "Splash" and feel ankle deep water.
Innumerable curses flashed through my head. Some in languages that I didn't even know. I didn't need to turn on the lamp because the rage in my eyes was illuminating everything around me in a deep red glow. Tim said "Wow".
At this point: I. Have. Had. Enough.
"Let's get in the fucking car" I said to apparently thin air. As soon as I had said the word "Let's", all I saw was Tim's outline in cartoonish ghost form, and then I heard the car door slamming shut. I will be honest, it didn't take me that long to get there either. We spent the rest of the night sitting semi-upright in his warm, lovely Honda Fit. The trees kind of looked like really tall people in the gloaming, and it is no strange reason why I dreamt that we were driving through a crowd of people very slowly.
The next day, we both agreed that it was time to pack up our soaking belongs and head home. The weather forecast for Friday into Saturday was more of the torrential down pour. Sadly and with heavy hearts, we loaded up the Lela (Tim's car) and we headed home. Back to the oppressive real world. And work. FML. This is where the depression sets in.
We hit no traffic because we were leaving the cape when everyone was heading towards it. We stopped at Christmas Tree Shop, and bought a bunch of stuff that we don't need and I am pretty sure we haven't used yet. Such is the nature of that store. You go in not needing anything, and when you leave you are filled with items that you still don't need. Sort of like the casino, you go and lose money, only it isn't as satisfying.
So we made it home, unpacked all our stuff to let it dry out, then sat around and watched TV. All in all we had a great time camping!
By the way, we have a great Tent for sale. $75, OBO!

More Commuting Fun!

Today I consumed a record 5 cups of coffee before I left for work. The commuter rail wasn't so bad, until we pulled away from the Malden T stop. Then I had to pee. Badly.
I was afraid I was actually going to piss myself. Nothing puts a cramper on your day like walking around with moist underpants from letting a little urine flow. Trust me, I know.
So, thankfully, we arrive at North Station, and I book it to the bathroom. I'm pretty sure I pushed a few nuns and children onto the tracks, but in my haste I couldn't stop and see lest I let a little golden shower out.
I made it to the urinal, and let loose. It was one of those pees that feel better than sex. Honestly, I was a bit winded and I swooned at the urinal after I was done.
The man next to me I noticed finishing up, then he reached up and did a heavy grab onto the urinal flush bar. It was a very full, manly handshake to the flush.
I didn't think anything of it, because I was too busy zippering up. I turned around, and went to wash my hands, but stood aghast. Every one of the sinks was overflowing because they were clogged, and people were furiously pumping the handsoap dispensers to no avail. Not even the trace scents of soap were inside these empty and dry dispensers.
I decided to forgo the hand washing and whipped out my trusty purell bottle. I always carry some. I ride the damn T! If I didn't have purell with me, I'm pretty sure I would have caught malaria, syphilis, dysentery, E. bola, and a whole host of "social" diseases.
I noticed that the man who was having a moment with the flush bar look at the sinks, then just walk out. He was standing by the bathroom when I came out, and for some reason I had a stroke of kindness.
"Would you like some Purell?" I asked.
The man looked at me as if I asked if he would like me to spray him down with whale piss then follow it up with powdered chicken shit.
"What? No, I don't think so" he said.
Right. Because my offering you hand sanitizer is gross. Never mind the fact that you were just touching your crusty, gonorrhea infested crotch, then the chlamydia infected flush bar, and then didn't wash your hands because the sinks were too gross for you. You nasty bastard.
Ten bucks says he's on his way to work at some Sysco or Aramark food service, tossing salad with his hands, or slicing deli meat for the lunch rush. Come to think of it he did look like the guy who makes my sandwiches at the B.I. Great.
Commuting is fun!