sad but true: caffeine’s counter-soporific wiles hold no clout over this blog. there’s simply too little blood in our caffeine system. add our unshakeable tendency to drift while driving, and you get a dire need for alternative stimulants on the road. seriously, we have occasionally resorted to the extreme periodic wife-slap, but to no avail.
you can begin to see, perhaps, why a weekend of three straight road trips was such an undertaking. beach on friday, football game on saturday, serbc on sunday. 18 hours of combined driving for 8 hours of combined pleasure.
short of crack rocks, this left us with a hoarde of bombastic, florid gas station choices in the category of carbonated spine straighteners. these are the only sleep-cheating products this blog knows of that (a) can be had literally by the side of the road, and (b) doesn’t make you feel like you’ve just shorn your nosehairs too short.
what, we haven’t talked about this? yes, well. we keep our facial hair clipped to a grizzled chin-pelt, see, and purchased one of those mini electric clippers for $9.99 to do the job. turns out it came with 17 special attachments that clean your navel, extricate ingrown toenails and pop zits — all with the flick of a switch! curiously, this blog’s nosehairs simultaneously began straying outside their designated orifices, like naive snakelets venturing from mama’s moist cave. we had no idea why. we’re not even close to being 75 years old. after vainly trying, for weeks, to shove them back amongst their nostrilar brethren, we opted, on a whim, for the nose-clipping attachment on our deluxe home follicle riddance system.
the nose of the device appeared not unlike the round jaw structure of a ravenous mutant octopus. and it didn’t “cut” the offending filaments so much as it “tore” them from their tender terroir. this blog should be totally honest at this point and admit that, during the proceedings, it swore by the mother of the u.n. envoy to mozambique at least 17 times. but the worst was to come. see, there’s a deft swooping action required of the nosehair trim job that was entirely lost on this blog. probably because we were trying to remember how to say, “mozambique” amidst searing nasal upheaval. if this procedure is eschewed, the nose hairs could be chopped overly short. and you know what that means.
it means that, for at least an entire barista competition season, one is subject to the constant pricking of stubby nose-hair whiskers right in the tender terroir. this is not unlike snorting a hairbrush. it is unfortunate, in this blog’s view, that other parts of the anatomy are inexplicably more famous for being sensitive to brusque applications of discomfort. frankly, it would seem much more relevant to wear and athletic supporter around the proboscis. or to say, for instance, “how indiscreet of the rugby player to stand in such a way as to be kicked in the tender terroir.”
this sensation — constant, unnerving jittery pin pricks — is how it feels to be high on coffee and most other liquid stimulants. the legal ones, of course. which is why the advent of canned syrup energy has been such a welcome enabler of this blog’s illogical weekend itineraries. it’s like a total-body calm, without the remotest possibility of one’s eyes closing.
and now you know how we made it to the serbc, where, it should be mentioned, we failed entirely to deliver what we had promised — possibly because we were high! as long as we were chugging, we figured, we might as well try one of every brand we could find. now if only these energy beverages actually tasted good. as it is, sobe’s adrenaline rush probably came the closest — and it tasted like nothing so much as a stale maraschino cherry, boiled and rolled in tender terroir.
p.s. you could do worse. you could be talking tomatillos and st. john’s wort.