The
other week I was on a long ass vehicular wander, through the nether regions of
upper Appalachia, where there apparently is some sort of coordinated secret
effort to turn all school boards into write-in candidates, who oppose a bunch
of made up things that aren’t actually happening, but Fox News beams strong in
rural America. Anyways, as one does, I got a few pieces of fried chicken
somewhere near the West Virginia/Maryland or Virginia/West Virginia or some
fucking border, who knows… I am just a man driving long distances to vibe, I do
not recognize the imaginary lines on a map while vibing that hard in a car in
the actual world where those lines don’t exist (though y’all motherfuckers do
put up a lot of fences, don’t you?). The chicken thighs had the taste of fish
as well, a shared fryer, which I don’t mind, that’s a blessing, anyone who
tells you otherwise is a prude who expects too much from fried meats country
folks adore. You gotta look for those dope ass country stores for the fried
chicken hook-ups, which I found, and it hit, hard. A little too hard probably,
and as the DJ Screw mixtape I was bumping, I felt impending problems with
continuing my drive too much further without a gastrointestinal pit stop. That
sucks though, because country stores, and gas stations in general, are horrible
places to take a shit, so I usually look for a Sheetz or Wawa, in that region
at least, because they are consistent in making their wage slave employees
clean up the bathroom. Found a Sheetz, and it was weird, because there was a
freestyle rocking on the Screw tape over a song that had sampled “Superman
Lover”, that old Redman beat I think it was, but it might’ve been something
else using the same sample, but then when I went into the Sheetz, and found my
temporary road dog throne, I realized “Superman Lover” was blasting in the
Sheetz. Why the fuck were they playing Johnny “Guitar” Watson on the Sheetz
radio? It made no sense, other than one of those perfectly synchronized moments
of magic. I knew then that my choice in fried chicken, car music, and stopping
to get myself right all were perfect. And when I was done on my throne, I got
two Perrier peaches, got back in the car, and kept driving. I haven’t stopped
since. I’m driving now, texting this straight from my mind to the internet,
because they have that technology now in the nether regions of Durango state in
northern Mexico. I figure I’ll just keep driving down to Chile, then off to the
moon while it’s full again. I bet driving on top of a full moon is
transcendent. Probably gonna listen to some vaporwave for that leg of the trip
though.
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