Trixie in Boyland: Dirt

Here, let's up the font so we can read it when we're old and Bobby can make it out without too much trouble. Well, it was the trip of the century for Trixie, her first in years. She'd almost forgotten that parallel universe, that magical, half-hidden realm, that place lesser women like to pretend doesn't exist: I speak, naturally, of Boyland. Ahhhh, sniff it up. yummy. Boyland, Boyland, the very sound of the name evokes memories, images of monster trucks, all night senseless drunks, pissing contests, dangerous escapades and shit luck, irreverance about home, hearth and the Act of Love, getting away with really dumb stuff, and. lots of dirt. Copious amounts of dirt, of every glorious consistency from sweaty grime in the detail of your palmistry to gritty sand in every orifice, squishy dark mud up to your ass. yes, and grease, and old garbage, and cow shit. yeah, dirt. MMMMMM.

Discomfort. Freezing cold, baking heat, lumps and fleas in the bed, sticks in your eyes, blisters, welts and boils, nausea, gas, and piles. Smoker's cough. Injuries.

Cletis responds:
...turns out travelling with Trixie is little different than travelling with my wife...what the hell tour was she on??

I've never driven or ridden in a monster truck, never had a senseless drunk, one does not compete when pissing - one pisses because one has to...I've never been irreverent about love, though I like the way trixie has combined "Act" and "Love" into one phrase.

I don't recall any grease, mud or old garbage on the trip over dust roads and asphalt from Sorrento (where Trixie pulled the truck out in front of a wailing semi) to the last second drop off at the 9 PM ferry two days later.

oh ya- and what the hell smoker's cough are you/is she talking about?

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