Viva la gente! Viva la raza! Viva la white girl! (That’s a reference to a Gym Class Heroes song, in case you didn’t know. And I know you didn’t know, so don’t act like you did, punk.) It’s good to be here, writing again, spilling forth of my addled brain the over ripened fruits of knowledge that I possess, so that you may sip of its juices and say “This shit’s past its expiration, Holmes.” Yeah, I roll like this, people.

 It’s been a busy month or so, so much so that I didn’t even realize how long it’s been since I’ve posted anything. That’s mostly because of my high level of suck, but also because of a residual yet potent low level of supplemental suck that picks up where the main sucknicity leaves off. But also, I’ve been running around, trying to get all my affairs in order in regards to that damn accident, getting a vehicle (or “whip”, for you hoodrats like Elle and Scottsdale Princess), advancing my career, and other amazing things like eating and sleeping and watching “Leverage” on TNT. But first and foremost, let’s get it on about my wreck/car situation.

 Firstly, the state of South Carolina can orally cleanse the region between heaven and oblivion in my general taint area. It is utterly ridiculous that it takes THIS LONG to get a vehicle title, especially when we asked so nicely. In SC state government, the word “expedite” is Latin for “I bet this filled-out form would make a great coaster, or maybe even a sweet paper airplane. With landing gear!” Entire scientific studies were thought up, developed, proven, and completed in the amount of time it takes someone in the SC Department of Motor Vehicles to push a much-needed request from the corner of their crumb-infested desk to the inbox of someone who really wanted to be a dancer on Broadway, until they found out that “Fame” was just a good movie and a bad TV show, and all her dreams were dashed like Stacy. After Broken Dreamgirl finally processed our request (for the second time, may I add)  and sent us the title, I had almost forgotten that I previously owned a vehicle. Until I remembered that we needed it to get the money from the insurance company. Then it all came back to me like lost dog on a boomerang. (Look, I don’t know where these analogies come from, either. Even I’m looking at the screen like “Really? Dogs on boomerangs? Lay off the Arizona Iced Tea, son. And the Barq’s.”)

 With a pocket full of cold hard cash, we set out last weekend to get the vehicle of our dreams: a Dodge Grand Caravan or a Chrysler Town & Country, whichever one would bend us over the gentlest when it comes to making payments on it. I know…I’m pimpin’ beyond words now, and your loins burn for me when thinking of me rockin’ a fly minivan. It’s ok, don’t hold back now. Here’s where I have a major beef with car dealerships: if I call you to set up an appointment to see and test drive a specific “pre-owned” vehicle, do me the supreme favor of CALLING ME if you should so happen to SELL THAT AFOREMENTIONED VEHICLE before my pre-arranged appointment, especially if I’m driving CLEAN ACROSS THE DAMN METROPLEX to come see it! This happened multiple times on Saturday, and it was enough to make me wanna not buy a ride at all, until I remembered I’m exactly one step up from Bill Bixby at the end of every “The Incredible Hulk” episode in the 80s. All I was missing was that sad-ass piano music and a pair of pants that stretch and shrink every time I Hulk out, so as to cover my now-enormous and incredibly green penis. Anyway, we finally found a lower cost van that fit our needs, and this is my new baby:

 

My love for white women is confirmed.

 

Ignore the mismatch fence slats in the background. Do you KNOW how much it costs to replace a 6 foot privacy fence? If you do, you’re just nodding your head right now in pure understanding, and for that I thank you. Tangent.

It’s a 2002 Dodge Caravan, minus the Grand. Actually, minus about 4 grand off of what we would’ve paid just to have the word “Grand” appear on the trunk. I’m good with that. Grand or not, this is my new baby, in all her roomy glory. I even have a name for her. Are you ready for this? Are you?

No, you most certainly are not.

Her name…her glorious nomenclature…is…

Vantastic Voyage. I’ll pause while that absorbs in like aloe vera on a curling iron burn.

“Hey, come on, come along, take a ride / There’s a party over here and it ain’t no jive / It’s live, live, all the way live / Don’t even have to walk, you don’t even have to glide / Just slide, slide, slippity slide / And forget about your troubles and your 9 to 5 / And just saaaaaaaaaaaaaaail along (that’s whatcha do, ya just ) saaaaaaaaaaaaaail along!”

And for an extra little kick in the pants, I added some flavor to my new white girl. Check it:

 

All hail.

This is Elle’s birfday present to me, prominently and proudly displayed on my rear, so that the whole world knows what I’m down with. I’m down with bacon, people. Bacon is my cause. I am pro-bacon, and I want you to know this. And if you look closely, you can even see a sparkle above the bacon ribbon, as though an angel is saying “Yes…yes, this is glorious and good.” Or it could be the flash from my camera, but either way, it’s significant to me. Ah, my sweet new van; she’s a wooty. I know you can see that she’s an “SE” model, but what you can’t see are the “X” and the “Y” that come right after those letters. Recognize.

Now, I realize that it’s hard to be “cool” or “hip” or “with it” while profilin’ at a stop light in a white late-model minivan with “Support Bacon” on the back, but I gotta say…I pull it off. If you saw me at the corner of Preston Road and Plano Parkway, arm slung across the steering wheel, head tipped back, with some EPMD or Big Daddy Kane pumping out of my system (hey, I love old school rap. Sue me.), you would say to yourself “Now THERE’S a man who radiates confidence and oozes self-assuredness!” 

Or you’d say “Damn, he’s not even close to Cool. If Cool was a map of the Earth, he’d be the pin holding the top left corner up.” Either way, I’m rollin’. And that’s all that matters.

Peace.