Solonor's Inkwell

Yar! Thar be whales!

After driving across the border, through St. Stephen, and getting yelled at to go the f*** home from a passing car (damn our New Jersey license plates), we made it to St. Andrews near sunset. Our one-night stay at the fancy schmancy Algonquin was ahead of us, and the next day we were scheduled to go on a whale watching tour. We reeked of touristy goodness.

As I said, the Algonquin is rumored to be haunted. Everything from a mother and son who fell from the fourth floor to a jilted bride that died of a broken heart to a helpful old bellhop have been spotted in the place. While we didn’t actually see any ghosts, it is curious that only photos from inside the hotel have these mysterious spots on them…

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We interrupt this vacation story to announce the winner of the Olympic trials for the Trip-Over-a-Chair-and-Break-(or seriously sprain)-Your-Toe Diving Team. Solonor Rasreth scored a nearly flawless round with his unique run through the living room holding a cup of coffee. His flight across the coffee table showed brilliant form–made even more stunning by the spray of shattered glass and the unique Wookie-esque bellowing that is his trademark.

“I was going for the Mexican Whooping Fall with a half twist,” Solonor said. “I guess I came up short. I think it wound up being a Corsican Agonizing Death Flop, looking at the replay, but I’ll take it.”

Though Mr. Rasreth has lost the ability to stand, he remains optimistic that his left foot will thaw out from the ice packs in time for the games in Athens.

Bobby goes to Canada, eh?

Whilst unsuspecting Canadians lay sleeping, Strike Force Rasreth prepared to cross the border into foreign soil. Our plan was simple. Insert our team into hostile territory and gather as much intelligence about their plans to infect us with mad cow disease (aka, Celine Dion Syndrome) as possible.

We went over our checklist again…

Vaguely Canadian-looking map? Check.
Extra batteries for the spycam? Check.
Car filled with cheap American gas? Check.
Protective gear for the spontaneous hockey games that break out from time-to-time on Canadian streets? Check.
Reading material for the long, boring drive? Ummm…

Drat! Knew we’d forget something. So, before we hit the road, we went where all soon-to-be foreign tourists go…

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Bobby travels to the Crack of Doom… or “There’s got to be a morning after…”

I’d say that we headed into Day 3 of our trip full of vim and vigor, except that I don’t like to lie. Plus, there’s photographic evidence to refute it…

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Brought to you today by the letter “B”: Birthday, Beer, BBQ, Beer, Bowling, Beer, Billiards and, um, Beer

After backing slowly away from the nuclear plant, our heroes found their motel and settled in for the night. The next morning we awoke to find that we weren’t in Florida anymore. We could tell because the temperature was actually below the melting point of lead, and the lack of humidity let us breathe without our water filtration masks.

We also found that they had a petting zoo. With goats.

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Wah. I don’t wanna be at work. I wanna play with the digital pictures and drink coffee until noon.

It is a bad sign when your team members start laughing maniacally when you walk in the door, isn’t it?