Spring Break: Day Two: Florida is a Long Fucking Cock

Eventually, under the control and stewardship of Mr. McNamara, we penetrated Tennessee. At long last, the South and I had come face to face. Since that time, I have counted a mere 5 confederate flags. I now can see that my fear of being lynched was largely unfounded. Still, the South is a strange fucking place.

Tennessee was an interesting place. There began to be landscape again, an interesting change from the vast expanse of wasteland that was southern Illinois. We saw a sign that said: “Beaver Carpets.” I don’t know if it was the slap-happiness, but that fucking sign was hilarious.

After driving for what seemed like fucking forever, we penetrated Georgia. Then we pulled out. Then we penetrated Georgia again. The sky in Georgia was constantly illuminated. Strange. We bypassed Atlanta, and headed towards Macon. There, we pulled over for gas and Zachar got the now infamous cup of “ass coffee.” This fucking cup of coffee stank up the car worse than the dead skunks in Illinois. Zachar drank it and proclaimed it to be the worst cup of coffee ever. As he put it, though, he paid $.63 for it and, goddamnit, he was going to drink at least a quarter of it.

Zachar and the ass coffee.

Eventually, night turned to day. A deep sorrow fell over the firm. We had been driving for over 12 hours, and we were only half-way to Miami. We finally penetrated Florida, and there was much rejoicing. A disheveled and clearly disoriented Zachar pointed at cows and asked “what the fuck are those?” “Cows,” we replied. He insisted they were emus. Then he insisted that some birds are mammals. As proof, he offered flying squirrels.

We were unbelievably excited to finally be in Florida. We stopped outside of Jacksonville at a Waffle House. The Waffle House was an interesting experience. There was a fucking bug in the condiment basket. I freaked out a little. Ok, a lot. Ryan calmly got rid of the bug. Then we ate, and it was good.

We drove South. And we drove. And we drove. We felt like we were so close, yet the miles would not relent. I swear, Florida feels like a different country to me. It feels like we’re in Mexico. Everything seems cheap and run down. In any event, there is absolutely nothing on the eastern coast of Florida between Jacksonville and Palm Beach. Nothing.

Except Daytona Beach, where a bunch of fucking redneck assholes on motorcycles decided that they were going to clog I-95. Through some brilliant maneuvers, Cole and Ryan found a way around the motorcycle menace, and we proceeded unabated. But not before we saw some really ugly biker chicks. I’m talking so-ugly-you-can’t-stop-staring ugly.

Cole, Ryan and the seXterra at some godforsaken rest stop somwhere south of Daytona Beach after outsmarting a cadre of idiotic (and ugly) bikers.

At long last, Palm Beach was within our grasp. We called Laurence to ask for directions. Laurence was worthless. He handed the phone to Cristina’s dad. The first words he said to me: “What is your position?” I mumbled about being on I-95 near some palm trees or something. Cristina’s dad gave me very vague directions and told me to call back when I was at a certain spot. When we reached that spot, we called, and Cristina’s dad asked: “Now what is your position?”

Somehow or another, we got to Cristina’s house. It is the most amazing, most expansive, biggest and most extravagant home I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen Hearst Castle. The head of security tried to escort us off the grounds (for being too poor) but we were able to convince him that Cristina had taken mercy on us and befriended us. However, the dogs still growled their disapproval. And I don’t think the robotic Richard Simmons liked us much, either.

The ice sculptures from lunch were melting by the time we arrived, however, the valet was very personable. A nice young Asian man escorted us to the 12 bedroom guest mansion. We did not tip the Chinaman. We only saw the West wing of Cristina’s mansion, as the East wing was undergoing extensive renovations.

Unfortunately, I left my camera in the seXterra, and was too lazy to walk the 4 miles from the guest mansion to the valet parking garage, so none of Cristina’s house is documented. Sorry.

We met up with Yvette and we went to the beach.

Zachar on the beach.

Cristina and Laurence.

Yvette.

Then we went back to Cristina’s estate, and hung out in one of her seven pools. Cristina’s family needed the guest mansion (the Bush family was visiting) so we took our leave.

Yvette and I at West Palm Beach's fake downtown, in search of food.

MZRM

We went and had the greatest meal ever, literally. Filet mignon, sushi, shrimp, crab legs, chocolate fountain: all in all you can eat quantities. All excellently prepared.

These were the first two plates of my all-you-can eat sushi and filet mignon dinner.

There she is: the chocolate fountain!

We finally left Palm Beach and arrived in Miami. We checked into our hotel. It is an unmitigated, unbelievable shit hole.

The beautiful Monaco Resort, as seen from the Denny's across the street.

See the large, imposing, beautiful skyscraper full of $1 million+ condos? Now, look down. No, further down. See that turd-shaped building at the bottom? That's the Monaco Resort!

The Monaco by night. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?

Upon our arrival, the bell hop produced a labeled map of Miami. He indicated several Xs, and told us not to go there because that’s where the black people are. I am not making this shit up.

In addition, we were just informed that we could not get more pillows until the morning. And, even then, it would cost us money. I just called the front desk again, without telling them what room I was calling from. Zachar had called earlier, so they didn’t know my voice. I asked if they had any pillows. I was told that housekeeping closes at 6pm. What the fuck is that? I incredulously asked what he meant, and he screamed that housekeeping is closed. This is going to be interesting.

Oh well, at least we’re finally here.