Bad Directions
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So here we meet Bob, heading out across the north-west central mid west, in an effort to get to his grandmother's house in Coh-lee-forh-nyah. You see, it's his grandmother's birthday, and he got her some nice flowers. (What a good boy – why don't you do that for your grandmother?) Anyway, he's driving down the interstate thinking about football and such, when all of a sudden, mother nature comes calling. Guess he shouldn't have had that extra large Pepsi back in the city. And I suppose the second one didn't help much either. Well, since Bob is driving out in hell's half acre here, he'll just pull on to one of these side roads and drain the main vein there.
After a few turns, he stops the car down a small dirt road. He gets out and does his business on the edge of a farmer's field. All is fine and well. As he returns to his '95 Civic, he gets in only to realise he has forgotten which way the highway is! Down the road, he can see a few buildings, and the makings of a small town. He'll just quickly pull in and ask for some nice, simple directions back to the interstate ...
Excuse me, sir ...
Aye there partner! Welcome to Millborough! What can I do ya fer? I was just catchin' a bit o' fresh air and sippin' back on grandpa's ol' cough medicine if ya know what I mean. Sure is a lovely place idnit. Name's Rusty, but the fellas down at the huntin' club call me Ol' Rus. Heh heh heh hehhh ... Issear's Tate. Fella's call him Rattle Snake Tate, since he had his throat bit open by a nasty rattler back in '87. Li'l bugger was a nasty one too. Head the size of a watermelon. He cain't talk no more since. So what be yer business in issear li'l slice o' paradice?
Yeah uhh, can you give me directions to the interstate?
Ah, leavin' so soon? I tell ya what you ought to stick around fer tomorrow. We got our yearly corn huskin' match commin' up. You gotta meet Big George, the Tri County champion o' corn huskin'! I aint never seen nobody in ma life husk corn away he does. He be the town pride an' joy, I tell ya what. You gotta stay an' watch it. While yer here you might also wanna check out the town's beer can pyramid. Oh yeah, she's the second largest beer can pyramid in the state I kid you not! Id be quite t'thang ta see. Her name's Linda.
Thats nice Rusty, but can you just tell me how to get to the interstate?
I tell ya what we get a lot o' your kind out here. Dadburn city folk. Don't appreciate a good small town hospitality if'n it bit 'em in the poop chute! I blame at air media. Fillin' y'allses brains full o' mush. It's towns like Millborough that be the few towns in America what still 'preciate a good muskrat stew. Or th' sweet, sweet smell o' cow pies in th' mornin'. Or watchin' Dale Earnhardt win his fourth Talladega victory on a quiet Sunday atternoon. Makes a ol' fellow like me cry ... You ungrateful city folk oughta be more thankful o' yourselves. Id be a great world we live in. By golly thank th'lord you can be a part of this massive, revolvin' and evolvin' world.
I didn't ask for your life story, just tell me where the interstate is!
Alright Alright, I tell ya what your gettin' mighty upset over nothin'. Now here's whatcher gonna do. Drive straight down this here road and make a right at Tupper Steet. Go fer a few miles ataway, then turn down Route 52. You'll see a big sign with a moose on it. Take two rights, then a left. Follow that thar road until you come to a bridge with an ol' man on it. He'll ask you 'bout th' air speed velocity ratio o' a swallow. Get it right, and cross th' bridge on to a dirt road that'll take you straight to a highway. Follow the highway for a couple of miles till you come up to Yellow Gables. Take a left, three rights, a left, turn up, two more lefts and a right. It should bring you right to a road that'll take you to another road that may or may not be the interstate. If it ain't, just repeat the last five steps till you get to the right place. Remember that and you should be good as grits.
Ummm ... Could you suggest a more direct way?
I tell ya what that thar be th'way. I was just makin' sure you got to see a bit o' extra country. Not many city folk like you have issear chance. You oughta be glad you found someone who knows this place like myself. I tell you what sure is a plum nice day to be out and about. Stop down t'camp grounds and watch some racin' tonight or sumpm. Coarse you could just turn around and you should get right back on yer way. But then again, U-turns be illegal in issear township, o' which you'd have to pay th'fine o' 473 dollars and a goat. O' which will go directly to cleanin' out the squirrels from th'town fountain. Good eaten's they are.
For the love of God, just tell me How to get to the damn interstate!
Back off Buckwheat, now I tell ya what just hear me out, I'll point the way out fer ya. Here's whatcha wanna do. Head over ataway for a bit, then turn air fer a while. Atter that go thataway, then thisaway, then turn lie kiss, ovair. Next turn rat tare, go down air a few miles, then go t'other way. As well, you could go the opposite way and forget about t'other way. Although goin' thataway might not be as good as thisaway, I tell ya what. If ya do go ataway though, try goin' ovair.
You are a very stupid person ... are your parents brother and sister?
... Do you want to come back to my place?
I thought you'd never ask
In conclusion
Bob and Rusty continued to banter back and forth. Much arguing ensued, followed by verbal insults, and an emotional breakdown on Bob's part. He drove off, not knowing where to go. Frightened and confused, he left the car and ran off into the wilderness. Bob never showed up to grandma's house. He didn't show up to work the following Monday either. Although this is just one story of how terrible, terrible directions can ruin a man's life, we all can learn a valuable lesson. If someone asks you for directions, please remember Bob, and don't be a douchebag. Also, stay away from that second drink of Pepsi, folks. It's only gonna come back to haunt you in the end.[1]
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References
Quasi-Featured Article (24 June 2009)