When the Hancocks take a road trip, they go all out! Rarely is there a dull moment in our lives, but when we hit the road, we really pull out all the stops. this past trip was no exception. For starters, I realized that the oldest spawn and I seem to have synced up our monthly cycles. Two "women" with PMS in a confined space for 19 hours with a loud-mouthed 1st grader, a farting dog and a man with a stomach bug = a bloody good time, y'all.
Aside from dealing with the curse Mother Nature has bestowed upon women, we always head north forgetting one simple fact: high altitude = gassy Hancocks. Our dog, evidently, is no exception to the rule. Even if she doesn't fart much. She's just a great scapegoat for when you fart and want to blame someone else. She can't speak...so she can't deny anything. Some people, though, are too dumb let the dog take the blame...
Hubber: Please tell me that was the dog again.
Me: That was the dog again. It's too foul to be human. Wait. Maybe it's a skunk.
Little Spawn: You mean that fart? That was me! Hahahahaha! <fart, fart>
Big Spawn: Ewwww! There's something rotting inside you!
But, if there was a bright side to the long road trip it would have to be the acres and acres of cotton fields. That's right... people still grow cotton! Who'da thunk it!?
Not only do they GROW the shit, they very rarely fence it in. Huge mistake, cotton growers. HUGE. Because, if this heifer has a chance to pick some free cotton, you best believe she's gonna pull her large ass over to the side of the road and get to pickin'! I love picking cotton! I don't know what all those slaves complained about. Cotton is soft and fluffy and fun to pick.
Me: Hey, Hubber... look at all the cotton left on those crops. Those cotton picking machines are slacking! They need to get some slaves out there to finish picking that shit. I wanna see those bushes picked dry!
Hubber: "Bushes picked dry"? Really?
Me: Perv. But, seriously. If we lived on a cotton farm, I'd make the girls go out every day to follow those machines around and pick all the cotton scraps. They'd be my slaves. I'd be all... "pick that cotton, slave child!"... and, "spin that cotton into silk, slave girls!"...
Hubber: You can't even get them to put their dirty panties in the hamper.
Me: It'd be different on a cotton farm. That's what I'm saying. Oh... and look at all those hay bales all rolled up everywhere!
Hubber: You are easily sidetracked.
Me: Yeah, well, I think I could totally be a country girl. I'd be picking cotton and rolling around on those hay bales.
Hubber: I'd like to see you try to roll on one of those bales.
Me: They're round. They roll. How hard can it be?
Hubber: Not hard at all, until it takes one turn and SQUASHES the shit out of you. Those things weigh a ton.
Me: They're made of HAY, Hub. HAY don't weigh shit. But, just to be sure, maybe I'll let the girls try to roll on one first.
Hubber: Now you're talkin'!
But, he wouldn't pull over and let the girls try to roll on a hay bale for me. Something about cow patties and barbed wire fences and ranchers with shot guns. Party pooper.
But... at least I got this: