Michigan will always feel like home to me. I morbidly think about when I die and where I would be buried. I can’t envision my tombstone in Bolingbrook. It just doesn’t seem normal. (It also doesn’t seem normal that I live in a city that is now infamous for a douche-cock cop who is a murdering fuck and walks the streets like all IS normal....) My tombstone, for those taking notes here, should be fierce as hell, with sparkly silver writing, hot pink accents, and bedazzled glory honoring me. Maybe even some twinkle lights or a permanently rotating disco ball. But that’s just a thought...
I have visited here for a week at my parents house near Grand Rapids. They live in a pretty rural (read: REDNECK) area of town, called Middleville. The middle of where, you ask? NOWHERE, that’s where. There are many neighbors who favor old lawnmowers, tractors, appliances, and jacked up old cars as lawn ornaments rather than traditional landscaping. My mom claims most of them “have a heart of gold” but I gather that doesn’t rule out them willing to sleep with a cousin or two. I think the bulk of the parking lot carnival operators come from this region of America. Dental hygiene is a non-issue. As is being attractive and wearing a shirt while doing ANYTHING in the yard (lawn mowing, drinking a cold one, beating your child with a cow poke..)
I know this sounds incredibly shallow and bitchy of me. It is. I am blessed to have grown up in a home where I had dental insurance, a great education, and a yearning to sleep with boys who aren’t found at a family reunion. Okay, maybe I’m being judgmental about all hicks out here in the sticks. Not ALL of them are this way. Just most of them. My parents have had someone ditch their car at the end of their heavily wooded driveway and set it on fire to beat the insurance company, clearly thinking, “Who the fuck lives out HERE anyways?!” My parents do, that’s who. They have wild turkeys that run around. Corn fields to the right. A cow went AWOL from a nearby farm and turned up in their back yard eating their grass. Not the neighbor dog, a fucking COW. They live in the KUN-TRY.
I generally drive about 30 miles into town to Grand Rapids, where I was born and raised. This town now pretty much resembles Bolingbrook, with it’s sprawling miles of restaurants, strip malls, and shopping galore. I joined a health club for a week. (You KNOW I can’t go without that for too long.) I went on a thirty three mile ride with a local bike club. This ride was made up of probably 40 guys and three chicks, including myself. These bikers made our biking group look like quasi-sissies. I never realized how flat Illinois is until I rode here in Michigan. It’s like comparing Hannah Montana’s titties to Pam Anderson. I almost barfed/passed out/crashed a few times trying to keep up with this group. The riders were blowing snot rockets from their schnozzes every damn time we slowed to a halt. (Think Puck on the old Real World episodes...) I don’t care if I end up racing with Lance Armstrong someday, though I doubt it because the only thing he’s been riding lately is Kate Hudson, I will NEVER shoot nasal mucus from my nose at random. Does it take THAT much fucking effort to pull out a damn Kleenex? Really?! My va-jay-jay is currently in denial that I pounded the shit out of it twice in one week. If my labes could talk, here’s what they would say to me,
“Bitch, this is not Food TV Network here! We are not little chicken tenderloins at your disposal to pound the shit out of just so you can have a toned ass and thighs! You best be gettin’ some padding up in this here cooch hole to protect us from those God damn pot holes! One more bump and we are gonna fall off and your pussy is gonna look like that dude in the Crying Game!!”
I think I need to buy a “lady friendly seat” for my bike so my cooch doesn’t revolt against me. I like my cooch, it has served me well over the years and I feel bad for disrespecting it. I am so sorry, my little labia-draped friend. I will be nicer to you from now on. Promise...
I think it is time for me to make the drive home to Bolingbrook now. I am having a conversation with my vagina. The neighbors must have sprayed pesticides on the crops again and I am hallucinating. I’d better go floss my teeth now...
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