Get 2 Choppin

Well I made a trip to Laguna Beach today and it wasn’t quite what I thought it would be. First, I hate to admit this but I am not the greatest swimmer, let’s just say if Michael Phelps lost three out of four of his limbs in a weird industrial saw accident he could still beat me in a swimming contest, as long as he could fight me off from drowning him, with that fact aside, I still decided to venture out into the great depths of the pacific blue.

The crisp salt water heightened my senses and made me completely aware of my surroundings. The roar of the ocean was the background music to the soundtrack of my life but yet somehow I overcame my fear and waded in deeper; knowing that with every step I was one step closer to Japan and some good sushi and my eventual death due to the lack of a floatation device but that is another story that will be told by some sexy lifeguard that failed at his or her job. Luckily, before I could drown in the murky depths of Laguna Beach I was scared out of the water by the sight of:

Yes folks, it was this rare great blue shark that jumped out of the air and caught my attention and made me run out of the water screaming like a teenage girl at a Jonas Brother concert or a teenage boy at a Miley Ray show, the sound is probably the same, but I digress.

After getting my bearings, I decided to walk the ‘guna strip as I decided to call it. What I learned was that 3 out of every 4 Laguna Beach shops are all about the fine arts. They blow fresh glass art pieces like Lindsay Lohan blows her rehab partner for an alibi, daily. Shit, they even hang their artwork outside that is how you know they think they are better than everyone else. I mean I know it doesn’t rain every day in California but come on, but I guess if it does rain you can just double the price and say it is Jesus crying. 

The last place I visited, after drying off and visiting every over priced art gallery and cheesy boutique, was a little restaurant for some lunch to replenish my energy levels and get me back on the road. I thought I found the place when I came upon this sign:

A little peace and quiet was what I needed after facing death in the face. Unfortunately as soon as I walked in these bastards were like, “Shut the hell up and eat your soup, but don’t slurp, this is a no noise zone.” being a little confused I fumbled with my words until I whispered, “but I didn’t order soup”, the glare on the face of the waiter made me realize that I was indeed a Laguna Bee-otch. Oh well. 

Being that I am out in the wild, wild west I have decided to try my hand at penning the ultimate Western Ballad. It goes like this:

First Verse:

I came all this way to hunt my dream woman on the left coast

I don’t want to brag but I am better than most

So I sat down to have a beer

and ponder the fact that I might be queer

cause I ain’t yet found my California dear

Second Verse:

I hopped on a plane and flew out west

figured I’d just show up and give ‘em my best

I pulled out the big guns, I mean I flexed my left and then right arm

Damn I even showed them what I call the “thumb charm” 

But they all slapped my face and said, “cowboy, go back to your farm”

Chorus:

These Calfornia dear got big racks

One look will stop you in your tracks

The natives call them, “el grande hornos”

One might think they were in mucho pornos

But I’m no judge and that’s not why I’m here

I just want to kiss a California dear

Third Verse:

I’m just sitting here nursing my drink

figuring out what to do but it hurts to think

So without missing a beat, I yell “bartender, another drink and make it sing”

I keep my head down knowing failure is an ugly thing

Until she hands me my drink and I see she ain’t got no wedding ring

Fourth Verse:

The skies were cloudy and it was about to rain

I felt like I was carrying every lonely man’s pain

I even started to question my own damn game

until that Brittany Spears looking bartender, i forget her name

Said with a wink and a nod, “cowboy this is one philly that needs to be tamed”

Chorus:

Well, these Calfornia dear got big racks

One look will stop you in your tracks

The natives call them, “el grande hornos”

One might think they were in mucho pornos

But I’m no judge and that’s not why I’m here

I just want to kiss a California dear

What the hell is this world coming to when as I am flipping through the channels I catch an outdoors bowling match or competition or whatever the hell they call it on TV. What the fuck is the purpose behind this? Is it to make it more of a spectator friendly sport or so that the pasty white fucks that watch this so-called sport can get a tan and enjoy the beautiful smells of downtown Milwaukee? Or are they trying to appeal to a larger media audience by pulling out some lame ass gimmick that really didn’t even work for Hockey (remember they tried to shove Sid the Kid down our throats on New Years day, one of the biggest College bowl days of the year) and by the way Hockey originated on the pond so I have no problem with an outdoor hockey game, just watch the classic movie Mystery, Alaska and you will understand the mystique of the frozen pond and don’t go all “oh, but lawn bowling originated outdoors” because I don’t see any Bermuda or Kentucky Bluegrass lining the lanes at the local bowling alley/bar/restaurant/day care for white trash/shoe outlet for homeless people and rebellious teens establishment.

This whole fucking debacle just proves two things. One any sport that you can drink beer and still roll or throw a perfect game is not a sport (David Wells throwing a no-no does not count, he was hungover. There is a big difference). Shit even golf is some what in question just because of the fact that you get a fucking cart to drive around in and someone that chain smokes and is as fat as John Daly and also someone that is as un-athletic looking as lefty can win is proof enough of its falling into the category of hobby, like cheerleading.

Second, the fact that bowling outdoors is popular enough to be put on national TV proves my theory that Americans are the laziest pieces of shit on the planet and possibly the fattest. We have taken a sport that involves rolling a bowl down an alley and knocking down pins which by the way you don’t even have to pick up and placed it on some higher level than it should be.  

The only fucking bonus to this bowling thing being held outdoors is for that one douche bag professional that wears sunglasses indoors while bowling. I think his name is Pete Weber but I really don’t care enough to look up this no talent ass clowns exact name. I would call him at the shit whole small town bowling alley that he is probably at right now “practicing” his trade and tell him what a fucking total waste of space he is and that I hope he gutterballs that son of a bitch right up his asshole but he is probably outside bowling and wouldn’t hear the pay phone going off anyhow. 

Here at get2choppin.com, we like to do our best to keep our viewership informed of the world around them. Since most people that are not choppin’ are closed minded and probably don’t leave their house except for when I am driving and do so then just to annoy the living piss out of me but anyway that is another story and another time. Today we are going to deliver the scoop on the land of Silicone Breasts and Sun, California.

We have all seen the movies and read the books about how California can set you back a little bit in the wallet department. My favorite book on this subject is titled, “How California can set you back in the wallet department”. That is about to change because get2choppin.com has done the leg work for you so that when you come to the land of excessive sized SUV’s and Sunglasses you can get away from the toll-bridges to fun and get under the covers and see the scars of California.

First thing first. You need to be prepared and able to handle the rigorous demands that traveling on the cheap will place on you. So you need to reach for an energy drink and not just any energy drink. You need one with star appeal and honestly who has bigger star appeal than Hulk Hogan (and has an energy drink). So all you Hulk-a-maniacs need to suck it up, literally take a straw and suck up this powerful blast of go go juice.

The next step is ditching the car, because no one drives out here except for the filthy rich mom’s in their oversized SUV’s, the cool kids from the valley, and Asian computer nerds. You never know when a flood might hit, seeing it hasn’t rained since March, but at least the moms are prepared and they even have built in floatation devices in case of emergency. Luckily for everyone else there is the bus and unlike Michigan you can actually ride it without contracting Hepatitis from the hooker getting out of the cold or have to worry about some crack head asking to spit shine your tennis shoes for a quarter. Here it is just punk skater kids, hippie bums, and hardworking Americans via Mexico.

Today’s journey takes us to San Juan Capistrano, home of a Catholic Mission founded by the Spanish missionary J. Serra who came to the west coast to convert the heathens and steal their gold for pennies on the dollar. Like the natives I didn’t feel like paying the price of admission (for me it was only 9$ for them it was their way of live, pretty much the same) so I was left on the outside looking in. Thank God (or the state of California I am not quite clear on the person responsible) someone was nice enough to put a bus bench outside of the wall so I could get this photo for you.  

All that work getting this breathtaking cumulative shot of history and religion made me hungry and the one thing that this missionary couldn’t get rid of was the 50 or so Mexican restaurants in the town. Luckily right next door to the mission are the world’s best tacos (that is what it says on the receipt, so I am obliged to take their word). So after a day of sight-seeing you can saunter over to the other side of the street and enjoy some of:

I have to recommend the Carne Asade tacos washed down with a cold root beer. Then you simply run back across the street and catch the bus to your next destination. Total cost of the trip so far for the day under ten dollars. Well until next time may your dreams be filled with Spanish Missionaries pressuring Catholicism on the natives like a big Hulk Hogan leg drop coming off the ropes and little pedro’s tacos dancing in your head, aye carumba.   

This story was submitted by a close friend of get2choppin.com: Papa Pasquale.

The above photo was originally taken back in 1912 and is an actual picture of my great-grandpappy Pasquale Pellingrino who built the restaurant, that our family still calls home today, with his own two hands. As it has been passed down from generation to generation the story goes that Pasquale, “laida the brick foundation witha his owna two a hands just lika the pizza he tossed in the air uno at a timo.”

Since then every generation’s first born son that wasn’t deformed in some way was a named after this great man. That is where I have gotten my name and that is why I am the latest in a long line of Papa Pasquales but unfortunately I earned this title by paying a heavy price. Recently my mentor and elder statesman passed away. All I can say is Resta in a Pizza, Grandpapa Pasquale.

You would think that the news of a close member of your family passing on through the pearly gates to have to cook pizzas for a his a holiness would lift your spirits but unfortunately I have been afflicted by the hate bug. A close friend of mine repeatedly peppered me with questions like a spicy sausage pizza peppers your butthola the day after you eat it. Bad guy Brandon the Bad Ass Brazilian soccer wannabe would nota leave a me alone when I would not tell him why I could not come on our annual vacation at the villas.

Finally I could nota holda ina my feelings anymore and told him that I was skipping the vacation to attend to my grandpapa Pasquales dying wish of being cremated and placed in a pepper grinder and sprinkled from the leaning tower of Pizza (I know it is Pisa but my grandpappy was a simple man with a simple education and he always said, “always have a the dough before you adda the extra toppings.”)

The worst part about the whole situation is for years I have been carrying Brandon on my back like fifty pound bag of flour. We played soccer together and the headlines always used to read, “Pasquale is Perfection” or “Pasquale 4 Everyone else 0″. Jealousy reared its ugly head and I truly believe that the negative attitude and ugly face of Brandon actually killed my grandpapa, but I won’t hold that against him because my motto is “how cana hellllp you” and that is the type of stand up guy I am.