Some people long for adventure. I happen to be one of those people.
I daydream often of spitting off of the Empire State Building, of sacrificing a human being to the Sun god on the top of an Aztec ruin, of standing on the rail of a doomed ship holding my arms up and screaming, “I’m the King of the World!” just before it hits an iceberg and my fat-ass girlfriend refuses to share her floating driftwood and I freeze to death before sinking to the bottom of the ocean; my remains fodder for Jaws, the Great and Powerful.
Perhaps I am descended from Gypsies, though I’ve not heard of any statuesque blonde Scandanavian gypsy folk, or perhaps my apartment is so crappy that I simply have the urge to go anywhere that isn’t home. Whatever the case, I feel that I do not have to justify or explain my desire to lay eye on the biggest motorcycle rally in the country.
My Rockstar finds this desire to be completely insane and ultimately the source of my imminent demise. While I would find it interesting and quite exciting to grab a beer with burly men (and women) sporting leather chaps and Harley bandanas, my Rockstar is convinced if we were to venture and stay at the designated campgrounds that millions of people stay in every year during Bike Week, we would surely be designated as bait for any motorcycle gang initiation rites. Luckily, Kid Rock is playing at said campground, so after three years, I was able to convince R that a good time could be had by all, no gang rapes or ass branding included.
After spending last Sunday planning our choice of poison, which included going to see Kid Rock, the Black Crowes, Jackyl, Jasmine Cain, and Vince Neil, my Rockstar received a phone call from his brother, and informed him of our plan. Little did I know, his brother was intent on ruining our perfect childless-friendly getaway. Rockstar hung up the phone and said the words I never knew I would dread to hear- “He say nobody should go into those campgrounds after dark.”
My heart dropped. Was I thinking of what a gang of horny biker dudes might do to someone with buzooms of my size or someone with such an irrestistable ass as my Rockstar? No. I was thinking that I might never know, and that my Rockstar needed to quit being a pussy and suck it up. What fun is life if you never have to worry about getting your ass kicked by a 250 lb. woman who looks like a man?
Anyhoo, I threw in the towel. I realized that my Rockstar may just not be woman enough to want to run for Miss Broken Spoke 2013, and making him surround himself with the Sons of anarchy before he’s ready would just be an incredible waste of my money. So we’re going to Vegas for my birthday in October instead, where the women are cost exhorbitant amounts of money, and the men are showgirls.