As I listen to Sean Kingston while writing this fatefull post, I think of perfect beaches along the turquoise sea with the light breeze of midday providing just enough escape from the tropical sun; there is also a scantly clad beautiful woman lying next to me and, at the perfect times without my needing to ask, getting up to give me a massage.Since this will likely never happen, although I like to stay optimistic, reality beckons me to the 'heaven in Michigan' that I feel I have yet to truly experience. I have spoken of the pearly gates before, and even visited them; only to be stopped by my existential views of the doorkeeper. But armed with the knowledge of fruitless English classes and the direction of a Garmin GPS system, Micheal Paul Hagan, Gregory "middle name here" Sheppard, and myself, Alexander Clayton Malloure, ventured to the line on that tropical beach, and after a long gaze and rushed thought, took the rash step across.
"Well, we're in McCain country now, boss" I said to Greg as he tried to find a parking spot in the suprisingly crowded Cabela's parking lot early Sunday morning.
As I flung open the double doors and walked through the gates, I was greeted with a "are you 18 and if so would you like to sign up for a Cabela's Visa?" "No, sir, I'm afraid not, but thank you for your kindness. I love this place. I love you."
I too, not playing the fool, walked off and meandered around the Chocolate Factory as if I had been hand picked by Dick and Jim Cabela to recieve one of their Goden Tickets. Immediately my eye caught the Bargain Cave banner, and we entered. Trying on every piece of Camo and Carhartt that looked in any way fitting and looking for obvious defects, I grinned knowing that I would never have to wear the artistic sin that I currently was taking off and hanging back onto the rack. I left the Bargain Cave feeling much more confident in my jeans and sweatshirt.
"Well, we're in McCain country now, boss" I said to Greg as he tried to find a parking spot in the suprisingly crowded Cabela's parking lot early Sunday morning.
"Ya, tell me about it" Greg replies. "Ohh, wait, there's one". Our collective eyes light up at the spot amazing close to the door, but as we pull closer we see the obstruction.
"Is that even a car?" Mike asks.
"Barely," I reply, "It's a Geo".
"What's a Geo doing at cabelas?" Greg asks.
"They're probably from Ohio." I reply. As we all think of how boring Ohio is, I recall our focus to
our first main priority. Pictures with the bears. The Statue of Liberty-esqe artwork adorning the front of the 4 trillion square foot showroom embodies the Republican "right to bear arms" philosophy common in southern Michigan. Good thing I didn't drive; my Obama '08 bumper sticker could have gotten me chastised.
As I flung open the double doors and walked through the gates, I was greeted with a "are you 18 and if so would you like to sign up for a Cabela's Visa?" "No, sir, I'm afraid not, but thank you for your kindness. I love this place. I love you."
Immidiately we walked to the Boone and Crockett whitetail records. I don't know why, but I felt as if the deer were having a conversation, and our walking up to them was taken as incredibly rude. We trudgingly walked off.
The excitement around me was palpable, and we quickly made our way to the aquarium where we saw the largest catfish I have ever had the pleasure not to have to eat (the objects that appear to be small rocks are actually human skulls that the fish has collected over its many years).
As we moved onward through the fishing department I fanasized about using the most expensive and latest gear to haul in that monster catfish that labored for breath under that dead log. Until, that is, I crossed the bridge. No, I'm being quite literal here. The bridge inside the store is up to Malloure specifications and crosses the trout stream that cuts through the heart of Cabelas. Immidiately my Montana fly fishing insticts were tripped, and, like Jodi Foster in "Contact", drifted deep into a memory of pristine, rewarding Cutthroat fishing at dusk in the beautiful Yellowstone wilderness. Then some bitch hit me with a cart and walked off.
The excitement around me was palpable, and we quickly made our way to the aquarium where we saw the largest catfish I have ever had the pleasure not to have to eat (the objects that appear to be small rocks are actually human skulls that the fish has collected over its many years).As we moved onward through the fishing department I fanasized about using the most expensive and latest gear to haul in that monster catfish that labored for breath under that dead log. Until, that is, I crossed the bridge. No, I'm being quite literal here. The bridge inside the store is up to Malloure specifications and crosses the trout stream that cuts through the heart of Cabelas. Immidiately my Montana fly fishing insticts were tripped, and, like Jodi Foster in "Contact", drifted deep into a memory of pristine, rewarding Cutthroat fishing at dusk in the beautiful Yellowstone wilderness. Then some bitch hit me with a cart and walked off. I too, not playing the fool, walked off and meandered around the Chocolate Factory as if I had been hand picked by Dick and Jim Cabela to recieve one of their Goden Tickets. Immediately my eye caught the Bargain Cave banner, and we entered. Trying on every piece of Camo and Carhartt that looked in any way fitting and looking for obvious defects, I grinned knowing that I would never have to wear the artistic sin that I currently was taking off and hanging back onto the rack. I left the Bargain Cave feeling much more confident in my jeans and sweatshirt.
Finally, we circled the mountain and looked for the famous grizzly bear. Passing first the black, then brown, then polar bear killing the muskox scene, we finally found the bear, and something
curious right next to his outstretched arm and razor claws. Camoflauge hats, with a strange logo on the them. It seemed to be a navy blue, large, block 'M'; an important symbol in my family. How could the University of Michigan disgrace itself with the travesty of lost tradition? The confusion I felt can be summed up in this photo:
Damn you Rich Rodriguez.
Anyways, in the words of Unwritten Law,
"Went to heaven,
couldn't get in, for what I have done.
I said please take me,
They said you're crazy, you were too much fun."
We decided on Arby's and ate our first dinner. Word. Below I have included some other pictures that are worth taking a look at.
2 comments:
get that shit out of here jason!
why do you guys have such short hair?
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