Summatime Bitches

Well, Memorial Day came and went. The weather outside completely blew cod. Therefore, we didn't get to have a true cookout. I haven't mowed our effing grass in 2 weeks because of the daily rain we have had. As you can see, I did get to trim our hedges to entertain our neighbor. But he is an asshole, so that is cool.

What this time of the year has brought to our family is an annual trip to Blairsville, in the north Georgia mountains. Georgia has about every landscape one could desire. From the plains that we live on to the beaches of St. Simons and Jekyll, to the big city of Atlanta and the Lowcountry of Savannah and Augusta. By far and away, the best spots are in the mountains.

You're doing it wrong asshole. Not Blair from Facts of Life, BLAIRSVILLE

My wife's family has a cabin there and it has become a once a year deal for us to go there. Last year, we met my wife's aunt and uncle there. They had their son and one of his friends in tow. Because we had a couple of 'mature' adults with us, it was a lot of fun. (I touched on this trip briefly on my facebook page. I just didn't have enough room to write much.)

Anyhow, we made it to the house around 10 pm on a Thursday night. We arrived to find that some wise-ass left a pipe on in the bottom floor so that when the water was turned on outside, it flooded. Luckily, their son was trying to kill a spider and got blasted in the face with the water. He told me that he then knew what it felt like to be Stormy Daniels. I laughed it off and we proceeded to clean up the water.

I suppose the environment felt like a beach trip to me. If you even remotely think you have the capacity to drink yourself pickled, the beach is the place to be. If you want to be a effing fried pickle, get to the mountains. I got the urge to purchase a 12-pack of my poison of choice called Heineken. Down the mountain there was this little store that was undoubtably the only one open in that multi-state area. Surprisingly good choices of beer and wine. I walked in and lost count of the amount of good looking women coming in and leaving the store. Now, I'm married and do not believe in cheating, but I am by no means afraid of living vicariously through a younger, single horndog. I tried my damnest to get my wife's cousin, we'll call him T.Pain, to carry his friend, Barney down to that little store because the trim was rampant. Never really happened.

The next day we had a boat rented at Lake Burton. Let's talk about swanky. We walked into more art than boating products at the rental desk. Aunt Jones spotted a piece of cheesecake. She wanted the rest of the pie. There were only a few pieces left, but I swear to you that damn clerk just spit a random number out of her head. Jones said "Ok," which prompted me directly into WTF mode. I love them too much and it was good pie, but honestly Jones, What the Fuck?! When I walked in, being the tight ass I am, the expression I believe was, "Fuck, things are going to be a little pricey." Considering what we were given as a rental, we got our money's worth. Here is a picture of the marina.

Swanky, huh?

As fitting as it may seem, my wife's uncle doesn't drink a whole lot, so he was the driver of the boat. Believe me if you will, but the marina told us they had to keep up with the driver so they gave him a personalized shirt. Not too shabby, until I took a second look at it.

After a long boat ride, if you think a full hour is long enough, quite a few beers, and doused in rainwater, we got back to the marina only to have the fucking sun show up and make fun of us. George suggested a little fun since we were wet. About a hundred yards from the marina is a state park with a natural waterslide in it. By natural I mean a giant slab of granite rock covered in freaking algae. Even though this was July, that water was feed by a natural spring and cold as a witch's tit. Everyone was debating on whether or not to get in. I have been through these things before and knew that the sooner I got completely wet and submerged in the water, the better I would be. Well, that and as soon as I pissed myself so I would warm up. That was freaking gross, but there were tons of kids in that pool of water and I damn well guarantee, I wasn't the first one. I did however, remember to not let the water in my mouth.

There were these kids and their parents that were sliding down this rock on their feet. T.Pain was sizing them up because they had a couple of women with them. He could have taken them. Douchebags are soft anyhow. We found pictures afterwards that showed him using a cooler top as a makeshift surfboard. I later received said surfboard as a Christmas present. Nice.

Fast forward to day 2 and our trip to a sporting goods store near Murphy, North Carolina. For those of you that give a rat's ass. Murphy was where the Olympic Park bomber from Atlanta was captured eating out of a trashcan buffet.

Anyhow, we walked around this sporting goods store and ended up having the entire family deciding to go trout fishing. We all purchased some water shoes and a little bit of tackle and off we went. It was when the discussion came up about trout fishing that T.Pain and George got into an argument whilst inquiring about a private stretch of water that held some large wild trout. Let me brief you on how trout fishing and riparian rights work in the North Georgia mountains. You trespass, you get shot. They take that shit serious and if a landowner catches you within their boundaries, you're fucked.

Because of aforementioned argument, Aunt Jones rolled the window down to smoke a cancer stick and began singing gospel hymns. Loud. I would have given anything to be an innocent bystander on the side of the road when the suburban came by. I have never before seen cattle look at a passing car as if they knew what was being said. Sung in that case. Holy hell it was funny.

So after a quick stop at the house, we had to go get some licenses (To be legal of course). It was on the way to the local hardware store that we stumbled upon the most fantastic fast food eatery we could find. Hardee's. Carl's Jr. for you west coast thumbs. To be fair, the race of the employee at one of these places shouldn't be an issue. It doesn't matter what color you are, take some fucking pride in your work. Besides, I don't dislike because of color; I don't like any color person that fucks up my food. I can honestly say that I have never been in the drive-thru of a fast food joint with Aunt Jones and Uncle George. I can only speak for the indecisiveness of my wife. That day was a good day. We had six seperate and complicated orders for these people and they came through with flying colors. I highly recommend that Hardee's. Tell your friends too. Bitches. Yeah.

We like to eat, so not long after our lunch was over, we discussed supper. Primarily the Dillard House. This place is what buffets want to be when they grow up and start taking baths. Aunt Jones got an immediate woman-boner for the cabbage casserole. Don't ask, I'll let in you on it later. We were on the way to this little river that was on the list for the trout hatcheries to release some fancy, farm raised trout when this little general store passed us and we stopped for some snacks and beverages. This store's owner had a crock pot of spinach and artichoke dip by the door. He invited us to try it which prompted Jones to say, "My God that is good, I'll take a container." WTF mode is back. To be fair, the marketing directors at large conglomerates study people like her. They welcome her impulsiveness.

Sorry for the tangent on that one. Speaking of tangents, try this website out, it is fantastic: http://www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com/

I just remember walked back to the vehicle and crawling into the very back of the suburban. Why the hell were we in the back anyhow? Who knows. I grabbed a 12-pack of beer and we were on our way. Once we got to the river, we had to wade through the water to get to the fish. T.Pain said he caught a couple. He probably did, I never saw them. I'll put this simply. I had a beer in my hands, one in each pocket and one in the pocket of my t-shirt. Ready, set, fish. Wait, I didn't catch a fucking thing. Well, except for a buzz. Pain said he caught a couple, but we never saw them.

Next up was too priceless to leave bits and pieces of it on Facebook. This random guy kept walking or riding past us asking if we had any luck. He was on the wayside of annoying from the get go and I was holding in a smart ass comment for the act of being contrite. We never caught his name and not that it mattered, he was just some random ass clown. Pain and his buddy told us that he walked up on the guy smoking pot. Kind of curious why Pain knows that he was doing that, but oh well, kids are busy these days. We had an informal family discussion about him and realized that this guy was obnoxiously all over the place. He didn't have anyone with him and was just trying to be friendly, or maybe he was on a mellow, friendly-high. Probably the latter.

When we were all ready to get into the car and go, he showed up once more. One last hurrah. His catch phrase preceeded our thoughts. "How'd you do?" Jones answered, "Waxworms, you have to use waxworms. A little old man that had a stringer full told me." This clever human being's response was, "Where the hell do you find those?" Without the slightest hint that I was even paying attention to this guy's insistant muttering, I butted in from Jones to say, "It is kind of difficult, you have to find it in the stool of a civet cat." Have you ever opened your mouth and the words that came out of it could even stall the calm flow of a mountain river. That response did it. So inherently stupid was my answer, it warranted a look from George that can best be described as jealously. Jealous that he wasn't able to come up with it first. He stands a good two feet above me and as I looked up, he had this look on his face that would make any elder proud. He was smiling in his signature grin and shaking his head in pleasure. Apparently, we were so enamoured with my comment that the clown caught the hint and left.

After a brief pause for all of us to take it in, George asked me, "Where the fuck did you come up with that?" "I don't know, I just opened my mouth and the little idiot under my tounge made the words come out," I responded. We were still in an uproar and I felt that my job as entertainment coordinator was far from over. While we were changing, I tried to get my wife to flash me while I had our camera out. Not really appropriate by her standards. She kept saying things like, "My aunt and uncle are right behind you dumbass." It didn't make sense to me, we had been married for a while. I think they've grasped the reality that I've seen her in the nudie a few times. Most recently as she was taking a shower and I was passed out on the bathroom floor. It wasn't appropriate for her, but let me get in front of the car to release a few beers into the wilderness and one of those jackasses decided to break out a camera and take a picture of me. Cute asswholes, really cute.

We get changed and are on our way to the aforementioned Dillard House because that was the true highlight of the trip. Jones once more mentioned the cabbage casserole and felt the need to call and check if it was on the menu that evening. No such luck. I don't see what the commotion about a vegetable that practically smells like a rotting burro in Maitzelan, Mexico. I don't care for it; really. I was busy commented on the other asinine things people were saying and trying to come up with something about the casserole when my wife opened the door for my thoughts. "I want to come up and go the Cabbage Patch Kids nursery at Babyland General." My retort: "Hey, I bet that is where they get the cabbage for the cabbage casserole Jones, they use the cabbage-placenta from the Cabbage Patch Kids." From there, I got, "That is gross." "What did that idiot say?" "Something about a placenta." Sometimes, I amaze myself.

Now, this trip couldn't be that far, but I had memorable comments about every place we went through. The following city was Mountain City, Georgia. A really sleepy, beautiful town. Not at all a place to talk bad about. At least, until I went through. Those that know me, know I have a comment about everything. This did not get a passing grade with me. "Mountain City. That is fucking original. These asswholes couldn't come up with anything else. Real fucking original." I kept hearing the phrase, "What did he say?" I'm marketing that phrase. Believe it.

We finally make it to the Dillard House. It was packed to the brim and we weren't going anywhere else. My wife instructed me to act civilized and nice. Two things that she apparently thinks I am not outside of the general public. We walked in and after I powdered my nose, we sat down patiently and waited for our turn at the Gorge Festival. It was at that moment that I actually bit my tounge for once that day. I looked up and swore I knew the guy I was looking at. I saw another person I recognized, and then saw the rest of his family. They all go to my church and I stood up and spoke to them. I'm sure I smelled of beer and fish guts, but I could have cared less. What I almost said was, "Holy shit, those people go to our church." Not the phrase to let loose. So I bit thy tounge.

I enjoyed what time we had and the food I shoveled into my mouth. I think, I was still drunk remember. There was quite the gossip on the way back to house. None of which I remember because of the aforementioned statement. At the house we brought out one of our favorite drinking games, Apples to Apples. For those that haven't had the enjoyment of playing that game, I'll provide a brief synopsis of how it works. Of all the cards you have in your possession with nouns on them, proper and common, you are supposed to lay down the one that best describes the adjective on the answer card. There is a judge that decides and the first person to have five holding nouns wins. We add a little by having the group of players petition the judge to sway their mind. Pretty fun when you add alcohol. Anyhow, I got toasted a third time playing that game and it was off to bed after another great day in the mountains.

We left the next day, but before we departed completely, we stopped off at a little roadside buffet called Mary Ann's. It was sinful and just a mere continuation of the Gorge Fest we were already having. It was in that line that I heard one of George's best philosophical ideals. He said something about enjoying the old people in line, or the way they smelled of clorox and kleenex tissues or something and I responded with, "You just signed up for hell with that one." His priceless retort summed the vacation in entirity. You readers might want to write this one down:

"Oh, I'm not going to hell, I might be living in the projects right next to hell and drying my clothes on the line using the heat from hell, but I will definatly be in Heaven."

Utter wisdom people. Wisdom.

After a lunch in which I could only pray there was a clean bathroom between the mountains and our house in Valdosta, I cringed and we said our goodbyes. George and Jones carried T.Pain and Gary to another river to do some fishing. We headed home. It was a vacation filled with memories and some foul langauge. We can only hope to have the same time this year.

Before departing, I'd like to say thanks to a few of our sponsors for the trip.

Bud Light

Heineken: aka Coon Piss

Michelob Ultra - aka water.

And this year's chief sponsor: Yuengling Lager

H. Staff