Lynk's about to embark on a vacation to the state where the Walsh's played grab-ass, the Clampett's prospered, and where robotic assassins from the future can become governors.
Well, East Coast girls are hip, and while I dig those styles they wear, I'm eagerly anticipating my Californication Vacation Extreme Deus ex Machina Turbo Neoblast Roll™. That's right, I'm taking a vacation. In fact, this is my first vacation that doesn't involve the utilization of an mp3-disc player to disregard family members on the journey to get to whatever destination we strive for. I've never really strategized and executed a vacation all on my own, nor have I been on a plane since I was hardly post-fetal, so this may be quite the trip. Get it?
I'll be flying out from the state that resembles ice planet Hoth, but colder and with more Wompa, eleven months of the year. I do this on Sunday, after medicating myself with Vicodin and Maalox, so I can't think and can't poop. I hate public restrooms. I don't know how I feel about flying. I'd much rather do it myself than entrust it to a specialized bus driver, and I know if one passenger throws up, I will too (mostly because I'd want the same attention they are getting too). I'll be landing somewhere in the state with the World's Biggest Twine Ball where I will pick up an original Chia Pet at the airport mall and depart on the second plane to my destination. I plan on meeting up with my two best friends, Michael and Jennn (you may remember them from popular web-syndication; mynameisLynk.com).
You see, they live in California. They packed up and left the ruins of New York in search for humans that actually breed with members of other families on purpose. From their descriptors, the land of the West sounds very enticing. For one, my complete wardrobe of Hawaiian shirts wouldn't be a god-damned faux pas. I hear they have beaches there that don't consist of gravel, dirt, and a lake. They have cities that aren't New York City, and they don't eat Spedies. If there's a heaven, it's got new, younger, hotter competition that has a twin sister who is Asian and loves video games and reruns of Lost.
I'm not looking forward to the plane ride, or the procedures to mount them, or the folks with the gloves that I hear so much about. Traditional methods I shall touch on in a moment may be the only thing that makes the flight quick and painless. I'm not against flying, but given the choice, I'd choose a rocket pack or gyrocopter over commercial airlines. Heck, give me the power of Ki so I can form a throbbing aurora around myself and fly like a Super Saiyan. I've heard planes are so much safer than trains, after all, I've been in a train accident. Plane clipped it. Giant fireball. Everybody died. I'll fly commercial, but it will take enough tranquilizers to turn B. A. Baracus into a drooling, sleeping baby. I ain't gettin' on no plane, sukka.
I'll be flying out from the state that resembles ice planet Hoth, but colder and with more Wompa, eleven months of the year. I do this on Sunday, after medicating myself with Vicodin and Maalox, so I can't think and can't poop. I hate public restrooms. I don't know how I feel about flying. I'd much rather do it myself than entrust it to a specialized bus driver, and I know if one passenger throws up, I will too (mostly because I'd want the same attention they are getting too). I'll be landing somewhere in the state with the World's Biggest Twine Ball where I will pick up an original Chia Pet at the airport mall and depart on the second plane to my destination. I plan on meeting up with my two best friends, Michael and Jennn (you may remember them from popular web-syndication; mynameisLynk.com).
You see, they live in California. They packed up and left the ruins of New York in search for humans that actually breed with members of other families on purpose. From their descriptors, the land of the West sounds very enticing. For one, my complete wardrobe of Hawaiian shirts wouldn't be a god-damned faux pas. I hear they have beaches there that don't consist of gravel, dirt, and a lake. They have cities that aren't New York City, and they don't eat Spedies. If there's a heaven, it's got new, younger, hotter competition that has a twin sister who is Asian and loves video games and reruns of Lost.
I'm not looking forward to the plane ride, or the procedures to mount them, or the folks with the gloves that I hear so much about. Traditional methods I shall touch on in a moment may be the only thing that makes the flight quick and painless. I'm not against flying, but given the choice, I'd choose a rocket pack or gyrocopter over commercial airlines. Heck, give me the power of Ki so I can form a throbbing aurora around myself and fly like a Super Saiyan. I've heard planes are so much safer than trains, after all, I've been in a train accident. Plane clipped it. Giant fireball. Everybody died. I'll fly commercial, but it will take enough tranquilizers to turn B. A. Baracus into a drooling, sleeping baby. I ain't gettin' on no plane, sukka.
