Hookin’ Up 91 Style

Call me spoiled, but I like to take around six weeks off in a big block every year and just get my feet off of America. Typically I fly out and bedevil my friends in the UK. This summer, money and time just won’t align for me, so travel looks to be impossible until the winter. That leaves me with some big problems: Can I survive at my hideous day job, and strangely pointless weekend job, all through the bright, sunshiny months and not, you know, blow up a bus in the name of Allah?

I suppose I don’t need any sort of Muslim affiliation if I want to blow up a bus, but it’s just seems to be “in.” Like those lists you see in your high school newspaper…what’s hot and what’s not? Incidentally, while cleaning out my long-forgotten storage units, I found many copies of my old school newspaper:

Hookin’ up, eh? I like how they use a sort of gender neutral name there. Pat and Ryan are hookin’ up…for hours of really hardcore gay sex! Ryan is buff, with new kicks and gear, and Pat…well, he sure knows how to suck it up. Oh, wait, I’m using that one wrong.

My current plan is to leave my apartment once a month and stay within range of DC, so I can take short little weekend hops and waste money at rural bars, seedy diners, and out of the way museums dedicated to corn husk art.

A friend suggested that I try to get to every state within three hours drive of my place, which has helped to give me some focus. Right now, I’ve planned a romantic getaway with a bottle of rum and a case of cigars in West Virginia for June, then I’m looking into hitting the Jersey Pine Barrens where I intend to hunt the Jersey Devil with a truckload of homemade, over-sized mouse traps.

Another possible stop is the Eastern Shore. I’ve always wanted to see those Assateague ponies… Mainly because I think it’s funny to call them Ass Ponies, especially when all the Park Service propaganda shots are definitely leaning towards gay pony ass porn.


There’s something about travel that constantly calls to me. Even on cold winter weekdays I think of hitting the road. Just going and going till the car runs out of gas. Which is much more romantic than reality because, as soon as you hit the road and try to get out of town, you fly into a rage at the DC traffic and – worse – the DC drivers.

But let’s not talk about rage. Let’s talk about ass ponies hookin’ up with some hot, hot grooming action. And let’s stop badmouthing my day job. Hey, I may talk cheap, but I don’t talk jive.

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