Ugly People Flirting, Pounding Rain, and the Worst Things We’ve Ever Tasted

I’m thinking about starting a band called Ugly People Flirting.  I’ll be the singer, of course, who specializes in an Axl-style serpentine dance, and will need some badasses on bass, guitar, and drums to supply the wall o’ rawk.  Our first single: “We’re All Ugly Now.”  If anyone’s interested, please drop me a line.  Pussies need not apply.

A few days ago I drove to work in an Atlanta-style rain.  Those of you who have lived in the South know what I’m talking about.  It’s the kind of downpour where you can’t see beyond your hood, and the drops are pounding so hard it feels like the roof of your car is going to cave in.  I never tired of hearing the reactions of non-Southerners to one of those so-called gully-washers.  Good stuff.

The best, of course, was Nostrils who was so shaken by a North Carolina storm he pulled over beneath a bridge, shit his pants, and made a panicked call to Nancy to bring him clean underwear and ointment.  Heh.  Not necessarily in that order.

It’s rare that we get a pants-shitting rain up here, but there was certainly one on Tuesday.  And I-81 was lined with vehicles pulled to the side of the road with their flashers on.  They all said fukkit, and threw in the towel.  I soldiered on, needless to say, but the other drivers were traveling at roughly 20 mph.  I was three minutes late for work, which really boiled my peanuts; my OCD was spiking and throwing off flares.

When we moved to California the locals always talked about “the rainy season” (what is this, Fiji?!).  And they assured us we’d NEVER seen anything like it.  I was skeptical, but they kept repeating their warnings until I started to wonder if it might be true.  And if it was worse than Atlanta – holy crap!

Then the “season” arrived, and every few days there would be a light mist of rain. And everyone would flip-out, fully.  All TV programming would be replaced by wall-to-wall Storm Center coverage.  People would crash their cars and drive off cliffs…  Trains would come off the tracks, catch fire, and go ripping through orphanages.  Terrified office workers would fling themselves off the roofs of skyscrapers…  I couldn’t believe it.

“This is it?” I shouted.  And they all sneered at me, and said, “Listen to Mr. World Traveler over here.  He’s not affected by anything, because he’s SEEN IT ALL.”   It was highly unsatisfactory.

Last week, at work, someone brought in a bar of Russian chocolate.  It was big, the size of a paperback book, with a weird from-a-different-era wrapper.  It looked like something Buster Keaton might eat in one of his movies.

But I was told that it’s the best chocolate in the world, that there is nothing better.  Russian??  I don’t pretend to know everything, but don’t associate Russia with gourmet candies.  Am I wrong?  Something seemed askew, but I had to try it anyway.  The words “best” and “chocolate” draw me in.

So, I snapped off a square, and immediately smelled something unappealing.  It was like our dog’s breath, or possibly Long John Silver’s dumpster run-off.  There was a definite fishiness to it.  And what the hell, man?

I put it in my mouth, and it has to be one of the top five worst things I’ve ever tasted.  I think I audibly gasped when the “flavor” took hold.  It was horrible and crumbly, and seemed to immediately grow in size.  It tasted nothing like any chocolate I’d ever encountered; it felt like I had a block of yeast in my mouth.

My eyes widened, and I sprinted for the trash can.  I didn’t spit, I just let the horrible thing fall from my mouth, as everyone laughed and laughed.  Except for the woman who brought it in…  She just shook her head and walked away.  And I tasted that crap for the rest of the night, and smelled it, too.  I think the stink was clinging to my nose hairs.

Absolutely horrible.  Those Russkies can take their terrible candy, and ram it deep and on a slant.  Blecch.

What are the worst things you’ve ever tasted?  Does anything stick out in your mind?  If so, we’ll need to know about it.  I ate something at an Indian buffet, many years ago, which I’ll never forget.  I don’t know what it was, but it’s definitely in the Top 5 alongside that horrible chocolate from a few days ago.

But what about you?  Please use the comments link below.

And I have to drive 36 miles, each way, to work today, to attend a three-hour training class.  On my day off…  So, I’d better stop here.

I’ll be back soon, possibly Friday evening.  Definitely before Monday…  I probably shouldn’t use the word definitely, but I’m throwing caution the wind.

Have a great day, my friends!

Now playing in the bunker
Buy Jeff a beer, he could use a beer.

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So, who is this guy?

Thanks for stopping by! My name is Jeff Kay, I was born while JFK was president, and it's all very embarrassing and corny. Today I'm a suburban husband and father, who is sometimes accused of being a bit tightly-wound. The West Virginia Surf Report! is my creative outlet, and insurance policy against completely losing my shit. I hope you'll stick around and participate in the lively community of geniuses and curmudgeons who hang out here every day. I love a full 87% of them! And while you're at it, please follow me at Twitter and Facebook.

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