Colorado is a weird place.
Jeopardy doesn’t start until six. Conan starts early at nine. The Subway we went to didn’t have any five-dollar footlongs. Before we left on the trip, people kept telling us to check out some English pub called The Pot And Weed, or was it the Weed In The Pot? Anyways, we Googled it, and never found the place. It must be uber-local.
And also, marijuana is legal there. I went after the beer, though. Got to taste a Fat Tire 23 minutes off the line, as well as about 75 other Colorado beers I’d never had before.
The most bizarre feature, though, were these extremely large hills, mostly made of rock, that we had to drive over to get to our lodge. Some of them are covered in snow, which is kind of a buzzkill in July. But once you stare at them for awhile, these large, inconvenient lumps start to look pretty neat. I like them now.
We toured the Stanley Hotel, where they shot Dumb and Dumber.
We did all kinds of stuff.
It was a good trip. I won’t bore you with all the awesome and exciting details.
After driving through Nebraska, you’ve had about enough. Then you find out that southeast Wyoming is the same as Nebraska.
Except that you can finally see mountains in the distance. So Wyoming had that going for it.
It is shaped like a square, just like Colorado. Or is a rectangle? All squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares, or vice versa. You know what I mean. This state does not have any weird squiggly lines for borders. Just four clean right angles. Yeah, that’s the stuff.
That’s why it was so easy for me to make this map:
You can see the part of the map where none of the action is, denoted by the text ‘This is where none of the action is,’ right? That’s where we passed through.
Along I-80 somewhere in Nebraska, you will enter a zone where your car radio picks up only four stations: country, country, religious talk radio, and country. To free your mind from this insanity, you pull into a gas station. In the bathroom you find a half-naked trucker, his back blanketed with a botched snake tattoo, taking a bath in the sink.
All you have left then is the road. It’s cruel, really.
Even pirates were kind enough to leave the marooned with a loaded pistol; Nebraska leaves you with 400 miles of……Nebraska.
Oh yeah, Nebraska has Chimney Rock. We added two hours to the trip to see this monument because hey, it didn’t seem too far out of the way, and it’s in the game Oregon Trail.
This can be said of the stone erection: It’s worth driving by, if you live within sight of it. Cool to see, yes. Worth a detour on an overnight road trip? Nah. But we can say we saw it. Someone, somewhere, at some point will be impressed by that, maybe.
After Chimney Rock, there were some bluffs and semi-interesting geological features, for about ten minutes. And a fox. We saw a fox. Then, back to I-80, and on into southeast Wyoming……..
It was dark both times we drove through Iowa, therefore we did not see much. We smelled a lot, though. Cow dung is the name of the game in Iowa.
However, the return trip up Interstate 35 is fun. Every exit sign names two towns, and each combination sounds like the name of some old-money kid at a Massachusetts private school:
And there was one that said Manly Forest City, a place I reckon is not for out-of-towners.
Somebody documented all these on okroads.com, which is where I stole the pictures from.
Exciting, exciting stuff.
Rudy Maxa. Rick Steves. These are the big boys of travel. The alpha males. The heavy hitters.
What a terrible series of opening lines.
The saga begins in Minnesota on 19 July, 2015 at 10:13pm, and ends in Minnesota on 26 July, 2015, at 2:54am. I’m driving in a car with a person whose real name is Cassandra Moistnoggin, formerly known as Cassandra Morningfart, en route to something called Colorado. To get there, we will have to drive south to Iowa, turn west at Des Moines, carry on through Nebraska, cut across a corner of Wyoming, then finally head south from Cheyenne to arrive at our destination, where we will stay for awhile, then turn around and come back.
Why would we leave Minnesota, home of Prince, the Mall of America, and thousands of lakes, to put ourselves through this awful drive across the Great Void of the United States?
Because Prince sucks, the Mall of America is dumb, lake water is disgusting, and everyone here will remind you everyday that they are either too hot or too cold.
There is not much more to be said about this place.
At around midnight, we cross over into Iowa, and you will moisten your undies when you hear what happens next….
Did you like that use of a tease? Are you excited for the next installment? Tune in tomorrow for a discussion about the highway exit signs of Iowa!
I’m sitting here watching the MLB All Star Game. Joe Buck’s forehead, which is somehow simultaneously advancing up over his scalp and down into his face, raping and pillaging any hair or sensory organs that cross its path, gave me the idea for a joke.
It will amuse nature lovers.
Sports fans might get it.
It incorporates the ancient art of rhyme.
The very masculinity of Buck himself is brought into question.
Sports, nature, poetry, and machismo in a delicious multi-layered taco dip of a joke. Here goes:
Joe Buck? More like Joe Doe!
I never said the joke would be funny. I’m very sorry.
What does this look like to you?
Add stars, change the color, and you’re looking at a Confederate Flag. These things are flying all over Scotland—the Deep South of the United Kingdom—above whiskey drinking, tartan-pattern-clad-inbred-half-human-sheep in foggy front yards full of tractors on concrete blocks next to doorless refrigerators and weight benches outside of shacks constructed from pillaged castle stones and petrified loch-beast droppings.
Until these icons of hatred are torn down, I propose a boycott of all things Scottish. During the coming days, weeks, maybe even months or years, let us all abstain from eating haggis, wearing kilts, and pumping on our bagpipes. I don’t want to have to put myself through this, Scotland, but I will.
Until your queen issues a decree forcing the removal of these flags, Scotland is dead to America. Remember when we didn’t hesitate to call French fries “Freedom fries,” and French toast “Freedom toast?” France’s attitude got a nice little tune-up after that.
Actually, by that logic we don’t have to give up anything Scottish, just rename it. Haggis is now Patriot Guts, kilts will be known as Freedom Man-Skirts, and bagpipes will be used to play the Windsong of America!
The ball is in your court, Scotland. Don’t make us have to wear Freedom Man-Skirts. You can be the change.