It's TMI Thursday my friends. For more stories that will entertain and disgust you at the same time, go to LiLu’s place for this week's full list. And now, on to the fun!
A conversation at a barbecue this past Memorial Day weekend evoked this memory from deep in the recesses of my psyche. It was another Memorial Day weekend and I was in Twentynine Palms, Calif. If you’ve never been there, well, that’s probably because you’ve never been in the Marines.
29 Stumps as it is lovingly known to those who’ve been there, or even passed close by, is the home of the Marine Corps Air-Ground Combat Center - about 931 square miles of nothing but desert. (By comparison, Rhode Island is 1,500 square miles.)
By Memorial Day weekend my friends and I had basically been trapped aboard the base for four months and we needed to leave. One friend, Brian, was from Tucson and, best of all, had a car.
Long story short, on the Friday before Memorial Day, Brian and I and our friends Ray and Bill loaded ourselves into Brian’s 1970’s vintage Mercury Cougar and headed off to Tucson.
But not before making a short stop at the local If-your-money-is-green-you’re-21 Convenience Store to fill the cooler.
Let’s do the math, shall we? Four (4) 19-year-old Marines + four (4) cases of Bud + one (1) over-powered 1970s vintage American sedan = Well, what the hell do you think it equals?
Bill and I were in the back seat having lost the “Shotgun” contest, in which I think we may have actually shot-gunned beers to see who got to sit up front. About an hour and a half and six beers into the six-or-so hour ride, I look over at Bill and he ain’t looking so good.
He Ain’t Looking So Good!
“Open your window, I think Bill’s gonna puke!”
All of this shouted over the blasting stereo.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to hang your head out the window of a 70’s vintage Mercury Cougar, but it’s not the easiest thing in the world. Oh, we were also going about 95 MPH down I-10. And drinking.
Somehow, with a bit of help from his friends, Bill managed to return his beer to the wild and we continued speeding down the road.
When we stopped at the Del Taco in Blythe, right on the CA/AZ border, for some tacos (surprisingly, Bill was hungry) we took a moment to inspect the damage. And then we borrowed a hose from the guy spraying down the parking lot.
It’s not like we wanted to be cruising across southern Arizona with a giant streak of puke streaming down the driver’s side of the car. That just wouldn’t do.