Camping Trip To and From Hell Part 2

My father, around this time of the year, is elected by a board of directors to be the manager of a Christmas Tree store that sells these god-ugly trees. It was a pretty big distribution center, too. It managed to attract people from all over the entire state. Eleven months out of twelve, my father is a regular where to buy pappy van winkle. But that one month, he is a Christmas Tree salesman. It’s interesting to see him work. Well, maybe for the first five minutes it is. After a while, suicidal tendencies start to mix with apathetic desires, and you begin to decide that rotting to death is effective enough. At least, you feel this way after watching my father and his business techniques. It’s quite disgusting.

He uses army lingo in his business venture. For example, listen to him right now: “We need two units to cover the lobby entrance! We got enemy hostiles in the perimeters!!” Yes, that’s right. Two units. To cover the lobby entrance. As you can probably infer for yourself, the enemy hostiles are customers, and the two units are his employees. Now, I can see what you’re thinking. “At least I get to sit back, watch, and be entertained. It’s not much different than Jerry Springer.” True, true, what you think might have some merit to it. But there are some facts that need to be considered. As I am standing outside right this moment, I am so cold, if you used an ice cube tray, my asshole could make ice cubes. Then there’s an douchebag screaming even in face-to-face conversations with regular customers. After a sale, he greedily rubs his hands together and pockets the green cash. I bet his breath smells like onions.

“Hey, son!” my father walks up to me, “How about after the next two arial raids, we go to Lord Valon’s! Where the mighty feast!”

“Dad,” I said, “You know, it’s not absolutely necessary for you to include the catch phrase of the restaurant for you to say its name.”

“I’m not sure about the copyright law on that issue, son,” he replied, “So, anyway, how about it?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “I’m kind of busy here, you know, feeling alienated by everything I see, feel, and taste. You know how it is to be willingly withdrawn.”

“How do you mean, son?” he asked, “I’ve never been willingly withdrawn. That’s insane.”

“Okay, yes, I’ll go with you,” I said.

“Good, good!” he said, rubbing his hands together as his breath crystalized into snow. He looked out to his left, used his hands to make fake binoculars, and then yelled out, “Charlie company! We need alpha reinforcements! Over!” Yes, he managed to retain a sort of prefer-to-asphyxiate-in-my-sleep mentality. He’s my dad. What can I say? I’ll say this much. When my father left home to bring me with him, on “a wild and crazy adventure” (no, no, it was just selling Christmas Trees), I managed to sneak with me a bottle of whisky from the alcohol dispenser… I mean, the alcohol drawer. Just about now, the warmth of euphoria started to kick in. Sedatives are the real heroes of this story.

My father did a regular “sweep and clear” on those “invading enemy sympathizers.” Some of you, at this point in the story, will ask me: “But why would you ever want to go to Lord Valon’s?” My dear reader, I understand your question, for I am asking myself the same thing. However, the answer my subconscious replies with is thus: a trip to Lord Valon’s usually entails a drug binge. While my father might very well be clogging his arteries with the 30% rice protein burgers, I’ll be waking up without a clue as to where I am. So, my father drove me far, far out to the nearest Lord Valon’s, which happened to be at least an hour away. I sat in the back of the car, of course, drinking and sipping me whiskey like a good ol’ boy.

We entered Lord Valon’s, and as we did, my father throws his hands in to the air and yells out, “We have arrived!” One of the employees and customers working there reply, “Ahhh! Arrival!” Wow, they followed the instructions on the side of the Norwegian Size Cup precisely… At about this exact moment, I felt like I was infected with a virus that I’ve had at least ten other times, but just can’t seem to shake.

“I’ll have two mega-burgers, please,” my father commands the cashier.

“Will that be with Blood of Your Enemies or God and Glory?” The first denotes catchup. The second denotes mustard. The third denotes sickened and advanced stages of schitzophrenia. You don’t see a third? Well, I do. At least, as low as this flask is, I am starting to. As my father flirted with the cashier, brazenly showing his knowledge of the Lord Valon menu (“Back in ’79, it wasn’t a mega-burger, but a super-burger! Yeah, I was there…”), this 24 year old who was probably in to pen and paper dungeons and dragons walked up to me.

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