Welcome to my trip to Little Rock. Fasten your condoms (reference to Father of the Bride....pick up your jaw).
Jeremy played chauffeur on this grand trek. He picked Elise up, he picked me up, we picked Goose up, and we went to the liquor store (I bought a head-sized bottle of watermelon pucker and a sixer of Smirnoff Black Cherry, Elise purchased the king-sized bottle of Aftershock, and Goose picked up a nifty bottle of clearance orange cough syrup), and then we finally hit the interstate around 2. Four hours later we rolled into Little Rock, right on up to the Comfort Inn and Suites and the bitchin' party commenced.
We were expecting a sweet suite, but as I posted earlier, it was more like a sugarless suite. Whatever, we went drinking immediately. Revert to the earlier post about the piano bar to hear about my midnight hurling.
Before we hit the streets of the big city we watched a bitchin' round of Olympic curling. It was Sweden vs. Switzerland, and boy could those bitches curl. I think we scared the neighbors when Sweden knocked both of Switzerlands rocks off the board and we screamed like orgasming banshees. While we're talking about it, check out the curling calendar.
Friday dawned painful (also in the aforementioned post). We were generally worthless for the entirity of Friday as we were hung over and wanted to die. Friday night we ate at Sticky Fingerz (not the Carolina rib restaurant I love more than air). Even though it wasn't my favorite Sticky Fingers, it was delicious even while hung over. I wanted to steal all of their funky folky art. We went back to the room, had an obligatory cocktail, and went to bed.
Saturday was our day to present and we did a fucking fantastic job. We're going to attempt to pool our conference papers and publish it in The Writing Center Journal or some such English rag. Since we were so happy with our showing, we had a few shots in the room and went to lunch with Dr. C and her grandmotha. We went back to the room, we had a few more shots, we took a nap.
Saturday night we were back in fine form, so we decided to be adventurous and go for Mexican food. Now, for a Texan...living in the capital of all Tex-Mexness...the new true Mexican food, it takes big balls to eat Mexican somewhere else. Our Croatian shuttle driver told us there was a good place nearby. 10 painful minutes of driving later, and as we began to feel that our lives might be in danger, we pulled up to a skanky Mexican place. Generally if the place looks horrid and it's full of real Mexican people it's gonna be GOOD. Authentic good.
NOT. SO. MUCH.
I ordered enchiladas since they're generally universally safe. Little did I know I was going to be served a house special: Enchiladas con goat CUM. The sauce was clearish. It tasted like pineapple. I think it was from a pineapple-eatin' goat. After that, we needed drinks. Back to the piano bar we went. So disappointing the second time around. A fat man with a boa (feathers) danced a lot. He grabbed his new wife's tits on stage. Sorority girls had birthdays. blah blah-fucking-blah. The drinks were VERY weak. I paid $41 for Malibu'less cokes and a shot of sweet and sour disguised as a kamikaze.
Yesterday: we felt like ass. We drove home in relative silence.
That's the general recap. Funny shit comin'...but not goat cummin'.