Monday, July 3, 2017

July 3, 2017

Dear Diary,

It was so hot this long weekend that I for sure we might go to the beach to celebrate the Fourth of July. Bill said it was a very short drive to the Jersey beach and Dr. Morell said that we had enough injection kits to last the whole trip, so you can imagine my disappointment when the whole trip blew up in our faces.

First, I distinctly remember telling Bessie to pack enough tuna fish sandwiches and potato chips for all seven of us: Me, Bill, Dr. Morell, Bessie and three Secret Service goons agents packing heat as bodyguards. Turns out she made the sandwiches but instead of white bread, she used deli rye, which I hate because the caraway seeds always stick in my dentures. I should have taken that as a sign.

I had a terrible time figuring out which bathing suit to bring. Of course my two-piece days are long gone, and I hadn't been poolside in a long time, so I had Bessie bring down my old one-pieces from the attic.  I remembered the red one with little flowers, because I had to wear it until I had the colostomy reversed.  Boy, those were some dangerous times! Bessie pointed out there was no point even trying it on, seeing as how the rats had chewed it up pretty fiercely.  That left me with nothing to wear to the beach other than my winter trench coat, which worked out just fine because the sun usually burns me to crisp. Bill was already on his third beer and laughed about how the coat would be safer, because that way nobody would mistake me for a beached whale.

Very funny. It's not like the entire Jersey shore is lining up to see him tan that twelve inch scar on his skinny-ass chest.

It took about three hours to pack the van, mainly because the Secret Service morons couldn't figure out how to arrange Bill's six cases of PBR and still fit everyone in. Then there was a big fight about who would get to sit next to the window. It was about 11:15 when we finally hit the road, and by 11:20, Bill's eyelids were at already half-mast, insisting that everyone join him singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," except he change the words to "99 Bottles of Brew That I Drank."

At least we were moving through holiday traffic, mainly because Bill and I stole kept the flashing light racks from the old days when we drove off with the government-issued black van. Even without the motorcycle cops, we made record time, because Dr. Morell had hopped himself up on some kind of amphetamine before he took the wheel. But when we finally turned off the highway, we all got a huge surprise.

The beach was closed.

Turns out that Chris Christie had closed the beach for everyone except him and his family. Bill was passed out in the back and Dr. Morell was still bouncing of the walls, so we sent the Secret Service out to talk with him. Christie was all up in their faces, one hand holding a piƱa colada and the other firmly gripping loaded Smith & Wesson, telling them the beach was closed and if they didn't like it, they could talk to "his little friend."

I don't know what he was thinking, because the goons Secret Service clearly had him outgunned with a couple of Remington shotguns. It was clear Chris was feeling no pain, though, and even if the goons guys had shot him, he probably wouldn't have felt it. Buck shot couldn't get through all that fat, and in any case, it would have left a big mess that nobody would have wanted to hose off the pavement.

We spent the next five hours in traffic eating the tuna sandwiches, because while the guys were bickering with Christie, someone ripped off our flashing light rack. Ugh. What a disaster. Republicans spoil everything.

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