Gay Panda is going on a road trip.
I’m going to let you think that the road trip is for some fabulous reason*, and that I can’t wait to leave** and the excitement is killing me***. I haven’t quite figured out how to write two thousand words a day for NaNoWriMo when I’m driving from Nebraska**** to the Magical Bamboo Forest. Multi-tasking is not one of my strengths. Maybe Lady Friend can describe exactly what I look like when my brain glitches if presented with more than one task at a time.
Eating on road trips used to be easy. I simply waited until I saw a sign shouting TACO BELL and then I pulled in for two bean-and-cheese burritos and a nice cold soda. Or I played chicken with my hunger to see how far I could go before eating, because (much like how I hate being interrupted when I’m writing) I hate being interrupted when I’m driving. I want to get to my destination, not stop to see the world’s biggest ball of twine or get gas or visit a restroom or sit in a restaurant or stop in a hotel to sleep. But this is not a responsible way to travel. Everyone must see the world’s biggest ball of twine. It’s part of road safety.
Eating primally on road trips is hell. One can only approximate. A soggy, lettuce-wrapped and anemic patty from In-n-Out; limp string cheeses that have been sitting in the back seat for too long in the heat; nuts and seeds and jerky. In a restaurant one can acquire chicken or beef, and most of the time, it’s in an unspeakable condition. So was the “salad” I once received. “Salad” is in quotation marks because it consisted of one large lettuce leaf and one cherry tomato. That was all. I’m tempted to fast from Nebraska to the Magical Bamboo Forest, but much like skipping the world’s biggest ball of twine, that is irresponsible.
After all, the economy is struggling, and it’s my job to prop it up with the purchase of a hormone-laden farmer-abused chicken hooter that’s been beaten into two dimensions and sprinkled with bread and trucked halfway across the universe to rest on a truck stop restaurant plate next to a fork that has crust between the tines. I’ll ask for a clean fork, but the waitress will already be grumpy that I’m just drinking water, and somehow she will know that I mocked the world’s biggest ball of twine in this blog and every employee in the back will rub swine flu on the new fork before she brings it out to me. They keep swine flu in a container back there for obnoxious customers like Gay Panda.