If California is good for at least one thing it’s giving me writing fodder. Last weekend, I ventured out to southern California for a little business/pleasure excursion. In the airport Starbucks I was met with this lovely warning sign…
“Listen up, Mofos…”
And still I proceeded to drink my coffee with relish.
“Mmmm, sweet, sweet, acrylamide.”
This sign was just the tip of the iceberg. Thoughts on my most recent trip out to California consisted of:
“How much can a rental car cost? $500?”
SAYWHAAANOW?
“Why is my Nissan Maxima offering me sex tips?”
“Why does this hotel soap look like a Ouija board planchette?”
Witchboard 3, anyone?
Having to go to California for worky-type thang, I immediately began plotting to spend a few days with my cousin who lives in the OC (don’t call it that) in my spare time. Now I love seeing my cousin but there is one thing I dread when staying with her – her fridge.
Doom on you.
The Cousin does not eat. Well she does, but in that sense she’s like a bird, eating tiny amounts at random times. Me, I need a set feeding schedule. I’m a veritable zoo animal. I basically have to stock up on my own groceries when I go there. And because our relationship is so damn swell, I can admit this to her. She knows this. And I’m fine with her pauper-like fridge. The only thing I ask is that she provide me coffee. And night spiders.
Please don’t ask. Dear god. Do not ask.
Our excursions usually involve:
1. Alcohol fueled outings.
2. Fart Jokes.
3. Ghosts.
This time we decided to take advantage of our California locale and head to the Queen Mary in Long Beach, CA.
Bloody Mary’s on the Queen Mary seemed fitting.
We scoured the ship before our planned ghost tour, parked it at a bar, had a few beverages of the alcohol variety and proceeded to make up stories about each of the characters in the bar mural.
Go home, Cindy. You’re drunk.
Liquored and Xanaxed up (we have issues; we’re adults now, OK?) we hit the ghost tour. Unlike most tours, our guide and our group were pretty damn cool. Everyone seemed overly giggly, joking and scaring each other. The tour guide seemed content turning us loose (Not foot loose or loosey goosey, just wild and loose), and letting us wander off on our own.
And seemingly our tour guide was unfazed when the Cousin and I regressed to juvenile behavior.
Tour Guide: This is what we like to call shaft alley, so named for the air shafts running through here.”
The Cousin: “I can think of some other reasons it’s called shaft alley.”
Me: “Sorry. We’re 12.”
Tour Guide: “That’s ok. I’ve made the same jokes.”
Many “lube” jokes were made as well.
Now I’ve been on a lot of ghost tours in my time (Winchester House, Whaley House, Salem Massachusetts, The Birdcage Theatre, The Jerome Grand Hotel…) but this was one of the best. It was seriously haunted. The proof is in the orbs.
And the pants-pooping.
You can’t tell but we just soiled ourselves in this photo.
So as observed in this ship-geared trip, California is good for many things:
-Scolding you for drinking poison.
-Seeing the Cousin
-Arrested Development references
-Inappropriate photos
Stroke it like you mean it,
They don’t call her the ‘nut slider’ for nothin’.
And this.
Let’s let that last one sink in. I see pubes and juju. Two very magical things.
Jules Just Write 