By Kids, I Mean, Adults On Drugs

As you may have heard, Dora and I recently traveled to Bossy's hometown to visit our dearly beloved friend, Benjamin Franklin, and our newly beloved friend E Darryl (seriously, his first name is a letter) and The Outlaw (to you, I apologize.  Dora came up with your blog name).  Many bowls were shared, bread was broken, stories told, tears shed.  And I recount this all for you now.  

The ride there was, um, looooong.  I think this might have been because we blasted through all our momentum (namely, The Indigo Girls) before we were even out of Virginia.  Plus, I was still in Nanny mode, meaning I was texting Justin and Francois Philippe long into Delaware.  But three depressingly long hours later, we arrived at Benjamin Franklin's apartment, which is located in West Philadelphia, what some might call the edgy part of town.  And by edgy, I mean, its primary tenants are crackheads, hipsters, and African immigrants.  Needless to say, I was ELATED as I absolutely adore all three of these demographic groups. (I'm not being sarcastic.  I regularly bring home stray hipsters.)

Dora and I probably should have unloaded our bags before we started passing around beers and bongs.  This seemingly effortless task took us a painful hour to complete as we were simply too trashed to cross the street.  We were having problems accurately evaluating the distance between us and the cars.  We solved this problem by standing on the sidewalk and waiting for ALL headlights to clear out before we could cross the street ... only to find that Dora had left her key in the fucking apartment.  Yep, back across ... twice ... before we got it right.  

The next morning Dora attended to her Philly bidness while Benjamin Franklin and I walked to a local farmers market.  We took this trip partially to check out the produce, but mostly to watch kids play with foam swords in a local park.  Oh, and by kids, I mean, adults on drugs.  

The rest of the day was mainly spent basking in the grand effulgence that is marijuana Benjamin Franklin and dear sweet E Darryl.  But the real fun started up that night when Ben's friend The Outlaw picked us up and we headed to the bar ... and then the other, hopefully more happening, bar ... and then the other, hopefully less crowded, bar.  The last bar was really the best.  Because when I say best, I mean, provided me with the most blog fodder. 

To start off, E Darryl is not 21.  Which means he pretended to push The Outlaw's wheelchair into the bar because, you know, who's going to stop and ID the guy pushing the wheelchair?

And then, once inside the club Dora dubbed "Spring Break 09 - Miami," The Outlaw and I fell in love with the two greatest people at the bar: Drunk Guy and Cheetah Girl.  

Drunk Guy spent his evening with his eyes rolled back in his head, telling everyone he lived in the "young professional" part of town, slyly groping asses when he thought no one was looking (little did he know that asses and crotches happen to be the mainstays of The Outlaw's line of vision), and, my personal favorite Drunk Guy move: aggressively thrusting his ass into any body part that would stay still long enough.  Dora, of course, baited him into dancing with her, whereupon he immediately asked her if "Hey Mickey" was her "favorite dancing tune."  He also confided to her that he hated everyone at the bar, including E Darryl because he was so nice -- "a little too nice, if ya know what I mean."  

Ahh, and then there was Cheetah Gurl, so named for the print of shirt from which her generous bosom was spilling.  There was simply no end to the Cheetah Gurl's antics. One minute she was grinding her crotch into a bouncer, the next she was vomiting on the dance floor.  When I saw the mascara running down her face, I literally squealed and grabbed The Outlaw in excitement, who kept asking me, "Oh, what did we do to deserve the honor of this delicate beauty???  Her grace and charm is simply awe-inspiring."  (He said that, I promise.)  

We eventually left "Spring Break 09 - Miami" because The Outlaw suspected "it was getting too white up in there," which was subsequently confirmed by a Blink-182 song.  

I remember telling myself that I was hot and should take off my jacket, but I was still surprised when I awoke on Ben's couch the next morning, one sleeve on, one sleeve off.  I was more surprised that Bobby Habibi actually thought his 9am text message was going to be answered in a timely fashion.  "Yes, we will be home in time for your Sunday roast, Bobby.  And yes we will probably reek of the weekend at the dinner table."