Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Don Johnson and the Highway to Hell

What better way to start a road trip headed to a 40th birthday bash for a pal in Tulsa, which was expecting 113 degree temps, than with a case of walking pneumonia?


Not actually seen on our trip.
Although there were rampant wildfires
in Oklahoma that weekend.

But vodka will kill the germs and the hotel has AC, right?

What the fuck, Tulsa- why so hot?

So we're locked and loaded and ready to hit the road for the five hour drive beginning at 10am. 

Just us four girls- me, Raquel, Lola, Baby D and our friend J-Dawg, also known as our personal man-butler. Baby D and J-Dawg are not famous gangsta rappers, they just play them on this blog.

J-Dawg riding dirty.

We packed four bottles of whipped vodka, Malibu rum and some mixers. 

Also in our bag of tricks: Hydrocodone-check. Z-pack-check. Pepto-check. Antacid-check. Imodium-check. Ibuprofen-check. It was almost like packing for nursing home patients on a day trip to the craft store.

This trip almost didn't happen. The preliminary stages were fraught with karmic turbulence.

The car we planned on taking needed some last minute emergency steering column repairs. Baby D had a family crisis and her childcare arrangements weren't finalized until the night before. Lola had childcare issues too, as her soon to be ex-husband was giving her shit.

Lola and I both had walking pneumonia. Well, technically I was diagnosed with severe bronchitis that could turn into walking pneumonia, but I won't be out done. So for dramatic effect, I'm going with pneumonia.

Raquel had no karmic setbacks, but she mentioned she might be prone to explosive diarrhea, so if anything was going to happen, it would go down in the car. 

There were a few other minor issues but in the end we said fuck it, we ride!

The drive there was fun and uneventful. We played games, jammed to some tunes and saw the tree where J-Dawg once took a shart on a previous road trip where he was forced to use his skivvies as toilet paper and left them there glistening in all their mustard-color stained glory.

We made a pit stop at a drive thru animal park where we saw llamas, rhinos, ostrich, goats, zebra ass and some very well hung donkeys.


Zebra ass.

We were almost ass raped by a camel who stole my cup of feed, but we made it out alive. Mostly it was hotter than the inner bowels of hell, so basically the animals would rather die of starvation than leave the shaded trees to come near our car.


You sure do have a pretty mouth.

At the hotel / casino we freshened up, had dinner and played some slots. Later we met up with the birthday girl and her posse and hit the club.

I was never much of a dancer until recent years. I guess when you're staring death in the face at 39 all your previous hang ups go out the window and you say what the hell.

Also, you should know I went from no dancing to freakazoid. That's kind of like going from demure makeup to full on whore face. You only live once and I have years of no dancing to make up for, so someone's getting humped.


My lovely lady lump.
Humping crotch. (too far?)

We had fun busting a move on the floor with the birthday girl- dirty dancing, shaking our asses and such. 

Her brother, Scooter took lots of pics and videos that we still have yet to see, but I have a vague recollection of some of the poses and fear we might have pulled off something straight out of the credits for The Hangover. 

I also got a sweet lap dance from hunky Scooter and I didn't even have to pay for it. All in all, not a bad night!

Anyone have some singles?

Day two was spent hung-over at the pool frying in the heat and drinking piƱa colada's.


I'm wearing a push up bra under my suit.
True story.

That evening was a night one re-boot. Dinner, then the club. 

Word at pool from the locals was Saturday night the club was "the place to be in Tulsa" so the line to get in could be over an hour wait if you didn't get there early. So like old people at a buffet, we got there when they opened at 8:30 in order to get a good spot.

We enjoyed the early bird entertainment of old drunk redneck dancing with old bouffant haired lady. They had some smooth disco moves until he squatted like he was going to drop a deuce on the floor and was obviously too drunk to go on.

All the members of our group arrived and the DJ was spinning some mad tunes. We were getting our drink on and after one Cosmo and a beer Lola and I felt like we had been roofied. Either that or the bartender whose freakishly long goatee she was stroking all night doubled up on the strength of our cocktails.

Towards night's end everyone was summarily wasted, laughing their asses off and shaking what our mamas gave us.

And that's when we saw him.

A dude dressed head to toe in a white leisure suit, white t-shirt, gold chains and red Nikes.

It was motherfucking Don Johnson.


How you doin?
Circa Miami Vice.

Lola pulled him into our girl on girl dance fest where he informed her that he was Pittbull's cousin. "You know who Pittbull is, don't you?" he asked.  Lola said "no" but she was thinking yes. 

We wouldn't want Don Johnson to think he was impressing anyone with his bullshit story.


One of these things...
Is not like the other.

At some point Don got too close to the birthday girl and her husband was uncomfortable and told him "OK, time to move on, Don Johnson" to which he replied "fuck you!" And that was met with a swift grab to the throat.

So long story short, we got kicked out of the club because Don Johnson is an asshole and a high school principal has an aversion to being told "fuck off" and will throat grab a motherfucker.

Later, there was much speculation as to if Don Johnson was foreign and thought his fashion was the "in" style. Or if he was wearing the over-sized white leisure suit as a joke. Or if he thought he looked like the bomb.

I thought of asking him the next morning when I ran into him in the elevator when I headed down to get some Starbucks. But I was so caught off guard and in disbelief that I ran into him at 10am the next day and he was still in the same clothes that I was rendered utterly speechless.

There is much more I could share but will keep to myself, like the in-room hijinks...


Whatever you do, don't fall asleep.
Or pass out.

And ghostly apparitions...


Ghost hand- see it?

Mostly because some things are better left unsaid and the innocent should be protected. Also, if I tell you, I'd have to kill you because I couldn't use it for blackmail later.

I'm not sure how we made it home. It's all pretty much a blur of flying down the highway at warp granny speed and fast food drive thru's. But we made it home safely and I shall live to tell another tale.

Surprisingly, no one had explosive diarrhea after the ungodly combination of Taco Bueno, Sonic, McDonald's, Cracker Barrel and gas station snacks we ate.

Although one of us did hurl.

A lot.

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