Roadtrip

Phook here. I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I wanted to tell you all about my vacation to the Carolinas, and my mom finally got her head out of her rear and let me get on my laptop, so the time has come. Straight up, the trip was real swell. The day we left was, for some reason I'm choosing not to reveal, the best day of my life. I was in the best mood ever. My parents had been so nervous about taking me on a 14-hour car trip, but I flipped the script on them and decided to be a rock star. Unfortunately, our van, Vanna Burgundy, had other ideas. About 170 miles into the 860 mile first leg of the journey, the vehicle started whining something fierce. Fierce. We pulled over and my dad diagnosed us as having low transmission fluid, and then set about reassuring my histrionic mom that it was no big deal. She knew otherwise, but attempted to silence herself by gnawing off all of her fingernails. Sure enough, the old whine came back about a hundred miles later. More tranny fluid was added, because surely there was a leak. And then 50 miles later. And then 30. All the way to Nowhere, Indiana. By this time, my mom was pretty close to needing a defibrillator thanks to her skyrocketing blood pressure. And my dad was filthy and sweaty from having attempted to wedge himself under the van looking for the mysterious tranny fluid leak 678 times throughout the motorists' nightmare that is the fair state of Indiana. They decided to call it a day, and we checked into the Lowbuck Inn, where we met some of the biggest psychos in the history of humankind. I kept my positive outlook and laughed at my parents as they housed some pizza in the corner of the rank hotel room, trying to be all quiet and shit so I'd sleep. Which I did with one eye open, gripping my pillow tight.

Now, the next morning we found ourselves an auto dealership with a mechanic who could look at Vanna. I took a nap on two chairs pushed together in the dealership waiting area, having decided that my lovey, Sleep Guy, is all I really need for a comfy nap. My parents shit themselves accordingly. Mechanic dudes couldn't find a tranny fluid leak. Turns out there wasn't one. Dad had just been adding more fluid because, well, I don't know why. (Oh, there's an elaborate reason, which he'll probably have to fight himself from explaining in the comments...but I'm not gonna waste your time with his nonsense!!!) Anyhow, they flushed our tranny and away we went (more on this later, good buddies). My mom kept calling my dad "tranny" for the rest of the day, but he didn't like that for some reason. Hmm.

So anyhow, we got back on the road and of course pit stops were required for many reasons. At one point, my parents pulled off the road in Scaryville, Kentucky, in order to get gas. At the run down gas station, my mom saw these signs:

Being an animal lover, she of course paused to read them. Here's the thing: there was a dog matching the exact description of the dog on the bottom sign lying directly beneath the sign. I heard my mom saying, "Hey, dog...are you that fucking dog? Are you deaf or no?" The dog did not reply. My mom was just about to call the number on the sign to say that the lost dog was hanging out by his own missing poster, when this guy walked out of the gas station and absconded with the dog as pictured below. My mom wet her pants and made heinous snorting sounds as her eyes beheld this sight:


So either this was another random dog matching the missing dog's description, or old dude freaking stole the lost dog. I guess we'll never know. Later that day, we arrived at our first destination, the beautiful city of Asheville, North Carolina. We promptly invaded the home of my momma's best friend, Miss Scarlett, and her hubby, Sheepish Pharmacist Hottie (SPH). Man did I laugh as those clowns, my parents, hauled all my phooking equipment up into their apartment...I love that I am so high maintenance. I was then provided with an avocado to eat which I rubbed in my hair to celebrate my arrival. We settled in for the evening and I chose to be a good kid and sleep all nice in my pack 'n play.

Now, the next day we did some really fun shit. The clowns took me hiking in my phooktoting device (I really am the cutest marsupial ever):

We hiked to a big waterfall where I shared a sandwich with my dad on a sweet rock:

Then I dipped my toes in the water and hooted and hollered and prevented wildlife from mating with my sound effects:

Here we all are together looking like a bunch of damned tourists in front of yet another waterfall (Geez, Asheville, don't you have anything to offer other than nature's wonders?):

Speaking of nature's wonders, my parents abandoned me one day with Miss Scarlett and went whitewater rafting on the French Broad River. Now, I was pretty sure that my dad was gonna come back either a) missing a limb b) a cyclops or c) requiring tube feeding, given his track record with injuries, but he actually survived. I heard he even overcame his fear of heights and followed my mom up this big rock and jumped off the cliff into the river. Hot shit! So, yeah, they were all excited about their big adventure, and I was excited that I managed to pinch a couple loaves in my dipe for Miss Scarlett and SPH to handle.

Another exciting thing we did was hang out in the swimming pool at our hosts' apartment complex. Here I am pretending to be a periscope:

And here I am pretending to be Lindsay Lohan halfheartedly blocking herself from the paparazzi as she leaves the club at 4 a.m.:

Although I don't have a photo I feel like posting to prove it, we also spent some time hanging out at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville. We went to the big house, the farm, the fancyass gardens, the winery...they have all kinds of shit to do there. My dad held me and I made a total scene while my mom and Miss Scarlett tasted wine. That was funny and I'm pretty sure that all the oenophiles who were glaring at me were secretly charmed. We also had an ice cream cone at the fanciest McDonald's on the face of the earth, which is located just outside of Biltmore. Here I am with Miss Scarlett getting a talking to about the evils of fast food:

Anyhow, we dicked around there for awhile longer and then, sadly, it was time to part ways with our comrades and head to South Carolina to hang out at the beach. We arrived on Hilton Head Island and checked into the shittiest hotel that place has to offer, since my parents have no business whatsoever spending time in a ritzy golf mecca, but knew the beaches to be quite choice.

Now my mom, being a crazed bastard for oceans, insisted that she dunk me in the salt water immediately. She was so excited for me to touch the ocean, it was like Christmas morning or some shit. Anyhow, here is my big moment:

My mom was like teary eyed and shit. What a gomer. She insisted we spend a lot of time at the beach. I ate a lot of beach. I also got dragged into the ocean on many occasions. It seems that despite my usual capacity for controlling my environment by simply screaming, I cannot stop waves from smashing me in the face no matter how hard I yell. Every time a big one would hit us, my parents would scream, "Bilge pump!" and then laugh hysterically. I truly can't believe I sprung from the loins of such dorks. Anyhow, here I am all duded up in my UV protection ensemble (more on this later):


Now, one day, we decided to take a little day trip to Savannah, GA. Here I am all geared up and ready to go on the grungy hotel floor:

Of course my mom is a maniac so we had to take a walk on the beach first (I'm cashed, but whatever - it's so not my fault - my parents have been playing an "Ocean Waves" CD for me at bedtime for like 4 months, so of course I'm gonna gray out when I'm strolling along by the actual ocean):

So anyhow, we made our way to Savannah where we hopped on a trolley tour. At one of the first stops, the conductor excitedly proclaimed that there was no line at The Lady & Sons, the restaurant owned by none other than that butter-lovin' goddess Paula Deen. My parents threw me off the trolley and sprinted down the street, because my momma loves that Paula. Sadly, it was a red herring...there was no line because they were already fully booked for lunch. My mom took this picture to commemorate walking where Paula has walked. (I know it looks all weird and superimposed and shit...it is a glass window and we are of course the beauteous silhouettes you see):

So that is as close as we got. You can see Paula's assfat buffet if you look closely. We ended up eating at this pirate place...my mom shoved some macaroni and cheese and a bunch of other southern studies in obtaining a badonkadonk butt into my grill, so it wasn't all bad. Here we all are hanging out with a nice cheesy anchor (and if you are interested in a weather report, feel free to observe the barometer that is my mom's frizzed out hair...yikes, lady, get some product for that shit!):

After eating non-Paula food, we spent some time on River Street in Savannah, and I napped and shit. We also got to see the traveling version of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, which my mom explained to me is serious business. My parents got all quiet and we slowly strollered down along The Wall, and I sent a little Phook message to the Man Upstairs for all those names I saw.

We eventually finished our trolley tour, and headed back to the Grungytown Inn, where I posed for this study in charm:


Now, you can't really see it in the above picture, but my parents had started to detect something a little suspicious on El Phookerino that day on the beach during which they dressed me in the UV protective snowsuit...mysterious red rashiness all over my charming person. My mom did some serious convulsing and mad googling and after considering possibilities such as the measles, allergic reactions, and impending death, decided (with the help of my more rational father) that I had a heat rash. Finally putting their faith in SPF 50 alone, I actually got to sport my hand-me-down bikini with 1980s neon trim as I performed quality assurance on local beach sticks on behalf of the Hilton Head Island Bitch Stick Conservancy. Perhaps if you look real close you can see my sweet rash:

If not, it is slightly more visible on my back in this photo, during which I am sailing on a dolphin watching vessel but am really more entertained by beating the shit out of the seat:

Regardless, I was pissed on this day:


My mom finally started to chill out on the screams of "Bilge Pump!" every time I swallowed a gallon of salt water and decided to switch it up a bit by offering me some chlorinated water one day. I decided that the pool was a bit more my speed, and agreed to smile for this photo, provided all proceeds stemming from its sale be donated to charity (and despite what people say to flatter her parents, that Shiloh Jolie-Pitt is a weird-looking kid, so this shot should fetch more):

Finally, our last day as islanders rolled around, and my parents decided it would be prudent to spend as much time as possible getting sand in our nether regions before heading back to our homestead, which is over a thousand miles from the ocean in any direction. We breakfasted on a beach towel, and my momma took this picture of me and my big buddy daddy:

Then my mom took me flying around the beach, and daddy snuck out the camera and took this shot on the down low, which is rather iconic, if I do say so myself:

I did a final round of stick inspections, and away we went. My mom had a very hard time pulling herself away from the beach, as she apparently always does when she leaves the ocean. Perhaps she was a giant squid or something in a previous life. Anyhow, here I am with the last stick I inspected:

Our big final stop was some quality time in Charleston, South Carolina. We took a horse drawn carriage tour and checked out some shit. I practiced my best happy yelling the whole time. I think that the honeymooner-esque gourdheads on the carriage with us were, not unlike the winery snobs, secretly charmed. How could they not be? Anyhow, here I am with my dad being ferried about the old city:

After the tour, we ate some lunch. Now my mom said to go ahead and post some free advertising on her blog, because this was one of the Top 5 meals she's ever consumed in her life, which is saying a lot given her penchant for being a chow hound. Friends, go to Hyman's Seafood if you are in Charleston. Actually, go there immediately, regardless of your coordinates. Get some broiled shrimp and scallops and calamari...cajun seasoning...oh man oh man oh man. (I am quoting my mom here...crazy lady wouldn't shut her yap about it for like 500 miles).

All right. Finally, I will share the last picture of me from the trip, with Sleep Guy in my stroller, just as we were about to load up into our car:

Right after this photo was taken, we got in the van and my dad dropped the crazy bomb on my mom. Rather than pit stopping in Asheville again at Miss Scarlett's pad, he proposed we drive the entire 19 hours home without stopping. My mom protested (largely because she was wearing shorts with a button and a zipper and that is against her elastic-waistband-only roadtrip rule) but eventually gave into his scheme. So that is what occurred. We left Charleston at 4 p.m. and got home at about 11 a.m. the next morning. We all stunk, quite frankly. What also stunk was the fact that the tranny whine returned around 3 a.m. (My mom KNEW this would happen.) But they just kept driving and we eventually made it home. I slept like a champ and was pretty jovial about the whole clusterfuck. I got my dipe changed at the Belvidere Oasis, so that was positive. When we rolled into town, mom and I dove out of the van and dad took it up to our mechanic dude's shop while it was still hot and whining (not unlike myself) and dude confirmed we have tranny problems, which will most likely result in a very expensive repair job for my parents; it remains to be seen whether that will occur tomorrow or in 2038. If you are interested in making a contribution to the "Save Vanna" Fund, please post in the comments.

So that's about it. We had a grand old time and I am a card-carrying roadtripper.

Bilge pump!