Get 2 Choppin

Being new to the Pacific Northwest, I figured I’d try to blend in and not cause any major disturbances (of course some minor disturbances are apt to happen when you are this good looking and fun-loving but that is a whole other can of Fat Tire beer that I’ll open later). I was somewhat thrown for a loop when I was out on a recent pub-scouting mission and I came across the following sign:

Now at first I wasn’t quite sure how to take this, I mean do they have a lot of fat, slow non-athletic kids running (or in this case waddling) around the streets of Redmond, Washington that as a driver I need to be on the lookout for? Is the rainy weather a detriment to the health and well-being of the youth of this area? Are the athletic trainers and personal trainers out here that pathetic? (cause if so there may be a burgeoning market for my skills as master motivational manipulator of the pre-teen and teen thickskis). All these questions popped into my head as I pondered the state of affairs in my new habitat.

Then another darker question popped into my head. Do they have a lot of retarded children that enjoy playing in the streets, that as a mentally competent adult I need to be aware of? I mean what is scarier than a bunch of loose retards running around in the streets? In New York or California that shit may fly but not here I would think. I could be wrong, I mean they disguise it ever so deftly by using the term “slow” so as to make me think of fat kids but really they are corrupting my mind so as not to see the obvious problem that has slipped through their hands and forced them to create street signs warning everyone of the impending retard about to rush in front of their vehicle like a crazed chimp broken loose from the zoo.

Just kidding, but seriously think about it!

I had a dream last night that little white boys and little black boys and little white girls and little black girls could play together, wait, that was another person’s dream. Mine wasn’t quite as disturbing as that previous dream, just kidding but seriously, though it did have some twists and turns that I didn’t even see coming.

It all started with Wham Dickham, and I, John E. Bravo, romping in a field of dandelions. The bright yellow mass of flower-weeds swayed gently back and forth as the warm breeze of summer blew. We were running, no wait, skipping, yes that is how I remember it. The fields were alive with the sound of music, that is the song footloose was rocking and then we started to dance like nobody was watching.

Then I decided I need to check to see if the mail came and I was instantly transported to my childhood stomping grounds. The walk to the mailbox was long and I realized that it wasn’t even my mailbox; that is when I turned around and walked the dirt road of my youth toward my home. Then I saw it, it appeared a mountain lion was chasing after me. I ran and hurdled a small tree and came into my neighbors yard. I opened the screen door and used it as a shield against the mountain lion. I knocked on Mrs. Best’s door. She opened it to let me in. I squeezed in and slammed the door.

I ran to hide but I realized the door wasn’t closed. I slowly sneaked a peek around the corner and saw the mountain lion with his ass sticking half way in the door and he was reading a book. Yes, a book. I rushed the door to push him out but he was strong, but not strong enough. He came through the door but I got him in a choke hold. This is when Mrs. Best’s neighbors who lived in the duplex next door came out. They asked what I was doing and I screamed, “Get back in the f@#king house, can’t you see I’m choking a mountain lion.

The cat was slippery with his loose fur around the neck but I held on tighter and eventually threw him out the door and locked it. My question for you is how did I know it was a mountain lion and not a cheetah at the door reading that book?

Because the cheetah would have been using cliff notes, just kidding but seriously. I awoke with a startle and my bed looked like I went twelve rounds with a steroid enhanced gorilla. I wiped the sweat from my brow and sighed a breathe of relief and went back to sleep to get my ”special” thanks from Mrs. Best, just kidding but seriously.   

As a dude have you ever fantasized about what your wedding day would be like? Our society paints the ugly picture that this day is all about the woman and the white dress but I tend to disagree with that sentiment. Seriously guys, why does it have to be all about the feminine side of things when it comes to the wedding?

I am not going to lie. I used to have this romantic ideal that when I got married I would be in some remote wooded region with my soon to be ball and chain, just kidding but seriously, and we would spend the day apart meditating the upcoming union of our souls only to meet at sunset upon a mountain bluff next to a gently cascading waterfall that fell into a lagoon. As the brilliant deep purple and red hues of the sunset bathed over us symbolizing the end of our lives as two separate souls, we would join hands and dive into the clear blue waters of the lagoon and we would become one.

Then I remembered I was deathly afraid of heights and that I couldn’t swim so I would probably end up flailing around like a dying seal and I would drown both of us, just kidding but seriously. So now I have had to revise my ideal wedding and I think I have come up with something way better.

It would be an outdoor wedding on a lush expanse of Kentucky bluegrass. The groomsman a.k.a. the other legends would carry the bridesmaids down the aisle on brand new Dixie Choppers. The silver and black machines would be a perfect match to the guys black tuxedos with silver cumberbunds and the shimmering silver dresses of the woman with their black pumps and matching belt. 

The flower girls would come down the aisle tossing a mixture of grass clippings and rose petals only to have the ushers walk behind them with leaf-blowers clearing the path for the bride and groom and possibly getting a little bit on the guests. The ring-bearer would come down the aisle with one of those toy lawnmowers that blows bubbles.

As the groom zoomed down the aisle, he would be greeted with the Dixie Chopper Wedding Song, “Here comes the groom, Vroom, Vroom. Here comes the groom, Vroom, Vroom”. The bride would be lowered down from a black and silver helicopter.

It would be a simple service with recently ordained Choppin Chaplain Mike O’ Connell doing the duties, “so you really think you want to marry this guy, huh?” and so on. The wedding would end with the bride and groom riding off into the sunset but not before mowing a heart into the fresh grass, just kidding but seriously. 

I have recently come upon a revelation while out here on the left coast. This may come as a shock to some of you but there are a lot of Mexicans in California. You could even hypothesize that at one point it may have been part of Mexico because all the roads have funny names like Rancho, Portolo, and Trabuco. I am guessing that in the Mexican vernacular that words ending in O have an important and prestigious meaning because I keep getting called, “uno loco gringo”. Well I don’t know Mexicanese but those sound like words that could mean cool dude.

It kind of reminds me of a joke I heard along time ago. It goes: three guys are sitting in a boat in the Gulf of Mexico: a Russian, A Mexican, and a Texan. The Russian stands up and slams a bottle of vodka and throws it in the water. As the bottle is bobbing around, he pulls out an AK-47 and yells, “In Russia, My Comrades and I have lots of Vodka” and proceeds to shoot the bottle into a million pieces. The Mexican then stands up and slams a bottle of Tequila and throws it in the water. He pulls out a dusty pistolo and screams, “In May-he-co, we have lots of Tequila” and blasts the empty bottle. The Texan stands up and slams a bottle of Rum and pulls out his Colt .45 and shoots the Mexican in the back of the head and tosses him over the side and yells, “in Texas, We have a boatload of Mexicans. This ain’t Texas.” Just kidding, but seriously they are every where.

You are probably wondering, like me, what they do for a living since the lawns in California are about as big as a bath-mat. I mean there cannot be a lot of landscaping jobs. So I have come to the conclusion that they all work in the plethora of Mexican restaurants out here. So in the spirit of Juan Pablo Montoya I decided to have a Wetback Week. I called it that because they do such a good job of slicking back their hair. They make Pat Riley jealous. 

I started with Margarita Madness Monday. A wise man once said that you should take everything with a grain of salt, if he wasn’t talking about the rim of my margarita glass then I don’t know what he was talking about.

The next day was Taco Tuesday. It started a little bit later because of the previous days activities but none the less it started. Things got a little fishy because I decided to order fish tacos. Get it fishy and fish tacos. Never mind that was the just the result of my brain cells taking a siesta.

The hump day highlight was Wet Burrito Wednesday. It went over as smooth as Jessica Simpson’s face after a dose of Proactiv.

This is where things started to get a little tricky because it was thirsty thursday. Well the quick and simple answer was that it was now an honorary Tequila Thursday. The long and detailed answer of what happened that night was that it was Tequila Thursday. Drinking tequila is like everyone turning on the air conditioners on a hot day at the exact same time during peak usage. It can only lead to one thing. Just kidding…but seriously.

Well since I was working with a clean slate, I decided to make it Fajita Friday. This was a welcome relief until I realized that Tequila and Avocado when combined create a super-laxative, just kidding…but seriously.

The Wetback Week was coming to an end and what better way to go out with a bang than to have a Sangria Saturday. This sweet nectar of the Spanish deity- El Godo, that was passed down to the Mexican natives (that were not sacrificed or killed), is instant party in a cup. Let’s just say the pinata was safe, which was a good thing because it turned out to be my brother’s cat luckily he has eight lives left, just kidding…but seriously.    

The wicked combination of alcohol and sugar made it easy for me to call it a Sombrero Sunday and just pull the brim of this large hat over my eyes and lean back against the adobe wall while sitting on the wooden pew as I celebrated mass at the Spanish Mission. Of course the ringing of the church bells made me want to yell,”aye carumba” but I withheld the urge, just kidding…but seriously.