This seems as good a place as any to tell the story of the gizz-stained undies in my duffel bag.
I don't travel well. When I'm away from home, I get tense when things aren't going according to plan...which, you know, is a problem on cross-country trips.
Tensions on my first cross-country trip, a spring break trip in which we drove from NYC to Arkansas and back with many stops in between--we went to the Arkansas State House the day Oklahoma City was bombed, no wonder the state troopers were eyeing us as we walked the grounds--were partially my fault and partially the fault of the organizer, who took his stick shift car even though I can't drive stick shift. So all I could do was read in the backseat, sleep and snore. Lots of pictures were taken of me with my mouth agape. Hardy har har.
The second trip--a trip from New England to Kansas for my best buddy's wedding in August 1998--was almost entirely the fault of the jackass who invited himself at the last minute. My buddy invited me (the best man), two other guys we'd been buddies with since high school and his brother-in-law (who was also one of his groomsmen). Four guys in a rented car...a bit tight for space, and we weren't quite sure how the trip would go with a guy we'd known mostly as our buddy's brother-in-law, but nothing we couldn't handle. Untill the groomsmen's brother invited himself on the trip days before our departure.
So five guys in a rented car. And the fifth guy was a complete ****ing loser with zero redeeming qualities. All he could talk about was the size of his ****, how much sex he had and how far he could ejaculate. We barely managed to co-exist for most of the trip.
On the day of the wedding, he was among the loud drunkies who decided we should leave that night instead of the next morning. Which would be great, except I was the only guy among us not drinking and I was ****ing exhausted from running around all day as the best man. But it didn't matter, I was outvoted. So I got to drive thru Missouri in the middle of the night. Can't you ****ers afford highway lights? Dark-ass state.
I convinced the fools to let me shower at my buddy's house to refresh myself. I shower, dress and come out to throw my dirty clothes in my duffel bag...which has a foreign pair of underwear in it. I go "Hey who tossed his dirty drawers in my bag?" Dickweed goes "I did. And they're more than dirty."
After some hemming and hawing, he fessed up: He'd gotten a classic 11th grade handjob from one of the bridesmaids. And THIS WAITING-FOR-HIV MOTHER****ER THREW HIS ****ING SEMEN-STAINED TIDY WHITIES IN MY BAG. I went ****ing ballistic. He took 'em out (damage was done, thanks) and said I should calm down, it was just a joke. I was mad the whole way home. Didn't help that the groomsman decided we had to be back by 10 pm the next night so he could get eight hours of sleep before taking the car back (I wish I was making this up), nor that I couldn't sleep in the backseat despite my exhaustion, nor the fact one of our buddies decided to eat an arby's sandwich at 4 am and then complain for the next hour about how his stomach was killing him. NO **** ASSHOLE YOU ATE AN ARBY'S SANDWICH THAT HAD BEEN SITTING OUT THERE FOR A DAY.
I was sniping at underwear hand job guy the next 12 hours or so. Somewhere around Pennsylvania, we stopped for food, and I said I'd walk to Pizza Hut to get grub because I didn't want Subway. Semen guy goes ape**** on me, telling me I've been selfish the entire trip and that I wasn't being fair to his brother, who was driving the car. I said it wasn't very fair that he threw his gizz-stained underroos in my duffel bag.
I asked him why he couldn't wait until he got home for a meaningless hand job from someone he doesn't even know. He told me I had no right to say that, that he cared for whatsherface very much and their "experience" meant a lot to him. I asked him if he knew her name and if he had her email address. Then I told him I'd fight him in the parking lot. Fortunately, his brother steered him away, because this guy would have beaten me into 2002.
We didn't say anything to each other until we got to the groomsman's house in Connecticut, at which point dickweed said goodbye and offered to shake my hand. I ignored him...and spent the trip to my parents house yelling to my other two buddies about what a piece of **** the guy was. Then I washed my clothes when I got to my parents. Repeatedly.
So anyway, I don't like to travel because I worry someone's going to throw semen-stained undies in my bag.
