Ugh, Uma. Uma, Ugh.

While heading northbound up Mexico’s route 307 yesterday morning, traversing the Yucatan peninsula in the pouring rain (route 307 is easily the weirdest road I have traveled before, Highway of Death aside, of course. Throw in an early morning rainstorm and it is all the more surreal, tipped over vans full of vases scattered along the road withstanding), I was most certain that The Lady Friend and I were concluding a most successful romantic holiday in that drunken slice of real estate known as Quintana Roo, Mexcio.

Sure, the whole thing started out with me being a rather hung-over crybaby last Wednesday morning [I threw up on three non-consecutive occasions during my travels last week – including once on the conveyer belt at Lambert International (I apologize if anyone saw that. Gross.)] which is completely and totally to be blamed on the tasty pints I enjoyed at the ever comfortable cold weather bar that is Seamus McDaniel’s on last Tuesday (The Tuesday before Thanksgiving is the new Wednesday before Thanksgiving -- I’m not sure if you knew that or not.) And sure, both The Lady Friend and I were leaving our neighbor to the south with tremendous head colds, but by God Shit, it was a successful trip.

We checked into Cancun’s airport without a hitch and were ready to get back home, happy as could be. However, thirty minutes after takeoff, I was hoping for the plane to crash. Something quick and painless would be nice, but I wouldn’t mind something drawn out and excruciating either, as long as the end result was the same: Sweet, sweet death. Why, you ask? Because of the in-flight movie: “My Super Ex Girlfriend.”

Even at the start of the movie, I was apprehensive. No way was it going to be good. Panicked, I looked for entertainment elsewhere. My books had all been read, as had the in-flight magazine. I couldn’t play Tiger Woods Golf on my phone because while I am certain that the FAA has indeed come to the harrowing conclusion that cell phones actually do not interfere whatsoever with airplanes, they just like fucking with us. I could try to play solitaire on my ipod, but with my stupid non-responsive fingers, I generally get flustered after 30 seconds of trying to work those tiny buttons and feel like thumping some hippies in confusing anger. I was out of options. It was in-flight movie or nothing.

So when I dejectedly plugged those weird two pronged headphones into my armrest, I obviously did not have exactly the highest of expectations, and after a slight giggle at simply the fact the Rainn Wilson was in it, my fears were confirmed: It was the worst movie I had ever, ever seen.

Alas, there was no plane crash, no flooding of the cabin by lethal gases, nor any other forms of escape from the sheer torture of “My Super Ex Girlfriend.” And at the time, how I wish it would have been so. I no longer fear hell, as it cannot possibly be half as tortuous as a Luke Wilson – Uma Thurman vehicle. Pure, absolute anguish it was. Hell on Earth. Or, in my case, above the Earth.

(I honestly can not believe how bad it was. How was this movie ever made? Did anyone first read the script? Was everyone drunk during filming? Were the CGI’s done on an Atari? Did anyone else see this movie? Am I alone here in this cold, post “My Super Ex-Girlfriend” apocalyptic world? So cold, so alone…. So many questions. Where is my Ford Lincoln Mecury in this brave new world of ours?)

Throw in a two and one half hour wait for our luggage upon arrival back to the Lou, and it was officially a bad day of travel. Now I sit here, two in the morning, trying to talk to some people across the pond who very well may speak English, but we sure as hell are not conversing in the same language, nursing a head cold and an empty stomach, and I just realized I need a damn vacation.

I can't lie: It's great to be back.

Hopefully, the snow gods feel like playing tonight and I can get a good old fashioned snow day tomorrow, to go along with an evening full of magical whimsy and Newcastle, and nurse myself back to sanity.

[Also, if any of youse are interested in game shows in general and Jeopardy in particular, a member of the Sports Frog’s message board “The Swamp” (which, nerdy as I may be, is the only message board I actually frequent these days) is currently kicking names and taking ass all over Alex Trebek’s pompous moustached mug this week and it makes for some interesting, semi-insightful reading on the inner working of the Jeopardy machine. Ironically, the contestent who goes by “Ryan” in real life, goes by “Turd Furgeson” in The Swamp, which is a name, as you very well may know, that is funny. It’s a funny name.]

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When I lived in Memphis, they called the road between there and Tunica "the highway of death" because there were a lot of accidents. For a split second, I thought that is what you were referring to. I believe I just gots myself a lesson in what the kids like to call "perspective."

Something else fun about Memphis--they called the Mall of Memphis the "Mall of Murder."

you, are the first person I have ever known who has dropped a 'The Postman' reference with such casual abandon.

I don't know whether to congragulate you, be sorry for you, or challenge you for leadership of the clan.
Krimil - "Mall of Murder" sounds like a poorly scripted Scooby Doo episode. I like it.

One of my weirdest traveling moments did occur not too far away from Tunica, however, when I was traveling from Pensecola to Helena, Arkansas for the King Biscuit Blues Festival during the first weekend of October in 2001. I had a weary day of travel and was becoming highway hyptonized by the cotton fields when I realized I was not only at the historic and much ballyhoo-ed crossroads of routes 61 and 49, but I was also listening to Bob Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisted." It was just past sundown and I pulled over and enjoyed a smoke in some dusty, old abandoned farming town and took in the randomness of it all. It was a good moment, although one I'm still not sure was real.

Val - I'm not opposed to going Law 7 of the Laws of 8 on your ass! I HAVE EVERY RIGHT!
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