Sigh.

Anyway, on the flight back to New York from St.Louis ( completely fucking up the whole comfortable timeline flow now ), Yakov Smirnoff was in first class. Which makes sense, and then completely deli slices my brain with no sense.

First of all he's a Branson superstar. Possibly the only more sufferable ring of performer hell to be considered a "star" in would be Dollywood. Branson, as in Branson, Missouri, is a backwater resort town. Lots of Hee-Haw ripoff revues. Horseshoe toss contests. Rickety amusement park rides uneasily bolted into the dirt. Seems as if he was escaping those tumblefuck cowseed idiots to the eastern shores.

Most disturbing part of this is that he's got the jelly to park it in first class. Pleases me not that the spew of Branson is successful monetarily enough to chill up in first class. Yakov should have been stopped in the 80's when he got the most face time on network television unleashing terrible stand-up comedy. The brief flash in Moscow On The Hudson, as the more urban smart Ruskie dishwasher, was about as high as his film career went.

Watched the putz hold up the show, casually taking down all five of his carry-on bags. The sardines back in coach hyperventilating while he stretched, hemmed and hawed. Wanted to smack the red menace out of him.

Also, update on my cock. All healed up, shaft skin looking swell. Started waxing the lance immediatelty after prick diagnostics showed no errors.

Thursday of the Tenth in the month of April: No tourist activities. As per a decree from spanky the ring holder of the Green Lantern Corps.

Our fuel tanks were running on fumes. Threw our collapsing metabolisms on Shannon and her lover. Asked to have a chill New Orleans day. Blessed blessed slack.

Decided on the now familiar chow hut of La Paniche. More pleasantries floating across the tongue. On this occasion I noticed the rainbow quality of the joint. It was gay friendly. Damn good homosexual food. The service was not quite up to par with the last visit. Disinterested waiter forgot to include the gravy on my grits. Was mightily looking forward to grits and country gravy.

See, the brain, she is not cooperating. I don't believe that it was that night that we went to Shannon's local boozer. I believe it was the night before and that's why we were all pained up. A convincer dispened Irish car bombs on us. A shot dropped into a half full pint slammer time of drink. Hosed all the skulls.

Anyway, the scene's got a groove that my needle can handle. The party is in everyone, and the repercussions are on the savvy tip.

Oh, oh, oh! I forgot, again like. We went to Saturn Bar. Indescribable. Seriously. Half the bar is an abandoned wood shop, planks and saw dust everywhere. Wall decorations fighting for attention. Old musty basement rec room odor. It sort of looked like a place in the middle of a homesteader trail to get backyard tank made whiskey and fishing bait. It was lovely.

Sunshine's illness was stabbing her insides. She wasn't a happy camper. Probably didn't help watching me polish off an entire basket of fried pickles. Oh yes herbie lovebuggers, fried pickles. Dill slices dipped in batter and sweet sweet deep fat fried. Wondermous. Me likey. Sunshine no likey. Double wrapped her in as many blankets as I could scrounge. Passed out fairly early with airport madness to deal with the next day.

Friday of the Eleventh in the month of April: Airline bullshit stacked outhouse high. Worst part of travel is travelling. Look out St.Louis, prepare your freak shielding. Coming with the deviancy rammer.