Butts County

As I write this, I am going to Ohio, via automobile, to see my grandparents, and then to Michigan to see my cousins and their awe-striking children. Half black/half white children are, in my opinion, the most good looking children on the planet.

At this very moment, I am crossing through the lovely state of Georgia, roughly 40 miles south of Atlanta and closing. Interestingly enough, we are in “Butts County.” Yes, that’s right, B-U-T-T-S county. Fascinating.

I find it interesting that a mere hundred miles or so from my home state yields such a peculiar difference in how the social norm is. I are smart.

I saw a large billboard where the biggest word on it said “STRIPPERS.” I was no longer in Florida anymore. I saw a second billboard with four attractive women surrounding the words “Liquor Store.” Another one showed a man and a woman and a website to “bestmarriage.com.” One can only imagine what that could be about. Those were the only billboards that I actually got a good enough view to see since I was too busy watching a movie. I feel that there were much more peculiar billboards around.

In this state, I have seen three broken down pickup-trucks on the side of the highway, and all three of them were pulling trailers of watermelons. We got off of the highway because the traffic was getting bad. Then, the ultimate battle of wits took its course. Me vs. my mother. She wielded her atlas. I wielded my iPhone and its GPS application. It was the war of the route. Who could find a better route? Which one would be clear, and which one would go through Main Street in some random town? My mother won out, and we will probably be about 30 minutes behind schedule, alongside the time we will lose from getting off the highway. I’m not bitter.

I just passed what appeared to be a mega-church with a truck that said on the side: “our business is souls.” You know, collecting them, indulging them, robbing them blind, selling them false hope, scaring them blind, and ultimately “protecting” them from damnation.

After seeing that, I just passed another three churches, one of them was most certainly a mega church. We then changed roads and passed 3 more churches.

We were at a stoplight, and noticed a faint smell of burning rubber and saw smoke coming out of the back of the car. We pull into a Popeye’s chicken where my mother and I eat at while my father drives to a car repair shop to assess the damage. After eating in the Popeye’s, my mother and I go to BigLots to kill time. There I see a gentleman... I can’t describe him in words, let me show you...



Lovely, I know.

So now we’re on the road once more, hopefully going to get to Ohio. I told you, my reader, about Ohio once before. ‘Tis a lovely place.

If you hadn’t already noticed, I’m not writing this entire thing all at once like usual, I’m writing it in waves, as things happen. And now I’d like to tell you about a little place located in between Georgia and Kentucky. A place called Tennessee. It’s a very interesting little state, where the dialect sometimes gets lost in translation. This was the midpoint of our journey. We stopped at a gas station there and I saw something that I can only describe to you as...interesting...



Indeed. That’s “mamy.”
Little did I know that this gas station was secretly a time machine to 1901. Classy.

The next day, we finally get on the road. Then we enter Kentucky, or as my father calls it: Ken-damn-tucky. It was boring there.

We finally reach Ohio!!!!
We stop to get gas, and a young gentleman, no younger than 17, no older than 22, was inside and needed directions to some random place in town. Well I just whip out my handy dandy iPhone, open up the maps act, and say you must know how to work this, and hand the phone to him. His look implied that I might have handed him a ticking bomb and pliers and had said “you must know how to disarm this.” I take the thing back, and type it up, and get him the directions.

We have finally reached my grandparents’ house. Hooray for no cellphone service! If you go into an AT&T store, and look at the map of coverage, there is a little tiny dot in north central Ohio that my grandparents call home. My father’s computer is, somehow, the only one that can get internet, meaning I’m still typing this in a stupid Pages document! fakjls;dfjkl;kafl;sdjkfaskfd.

My grandfather read something very true: If people found out that computers caused their arms to fall off, the would still be typing.

We cannot disconnect ourselves from the world. It’s impossible. Kids these days do nothing but log on and update their Facebook status every 3 seconds. I myself can barely stand the fact that I can’t log onto Firefox right now on my own computer. It’s driving me insane!!!

I'll finish my fun time in vacation later...