I know. You’re disappointed with us. We’ve dropped the ball. Please don’t hate us. We promise to be more dedicated, diligent bloggers. To be fair, we have been a little busy lately, what with our driving through 12 states in the span of four days. So, I’m sure you are all just quivering with excitement, wanting to hear about our glorious cross country adventure.
Let me just start by saying that, much like the way we approach life in general, this trip was all about style. And by that I mean, I have literally never looked worse in my life, and I have never been so repeatedly offended by Sarah’s choices in clothing. As she explained to me on day two, when she emerged wearing mismatched track shorts and a tie-dye shirt with a hand-made deep v that continued to get deeper by the hour, “When I had a job, I had to look nice. And usually when I go out, it’s important to me to look nice. So I’m really taking advantage of this opportunity to let myself go.”
Things really got interesting appearance-wise in Texas, when Sarah’s hair decided that it too was ready to let itself go, and she turned into a scary-accurate Constantine Maroulis doppleganger.
Remarkably, even despite our complete disregard to personal appearance, we remained friends throughout the journey. Of course, as with any lengthy adventure, there must be an element of danger. For us, this occurred on night three. We were making excellent time, and somewhere in Ohio we made the realization that we were only 9 hours away from our ultimate destination. Given the days we had been having, 9 hours was like pocket change. Spurred on by a caffeine high and the un-ending support of our co-pilots, we decided to drive past our original stopping point, and get a jump start on the final day of driving.
After briefly entertaining the thought of driving through the night and arriving in Brooklyn at approximately 6 a.m., we settled on going an additional two hours, putting us roughly 5 hours from our apartment, as opposed to the originally planned 7. Our route took us through Pennsylvania, and from my map, it appeared as though we would be passing through several cities, so we figured we would wait until we got close enough, and then start calling for hotels when we were a little closer.
What my non-topographical map failed to mention was that we would be driving through the Appalachians. At about 1am. In the rain. And with an apocalyptic amount of mist in the air. Now, we had already gotten through a torrential downpour in New Mexico, so the conditions weren’t really the problem. What was a problem was the unwavering insistence from Sarah (Editor’s note: the genesis of this joke was having the plot of “Deliverance” retold to me many times in high school by a traumatized Kristie) that there were literally millions of crazed inbreds hiding just out of our view. I quickly jumped onboard with this hypothesis, and we spent the next three hours surmising about what was happening around us. Here’s what we came up with:d
Sarah: The inbreds are dressed in repurposed burlap sacks like The Others in “Lost,” and they stand still as statues just inside the tree line along the highway. Once you pass them, though, they will immediately start sprinting after your car. We decided that upon catching up to us, one of the following would occur: they’d either open the back of the truck, throw out all of our possessions, and 50 of them would crowd into the now-vacant storage space waiting to greet us upon our arrival in Brooklyn, OR they would attach bungee cords to the bumper that they’d allow to stretch all the way into the New York border, before retracting them sharply and dragging us back to the mountains to live with them forever.
We were highly amused until it occurred to us that they could probably hear everything we were saying. Filled with terror, we imagined what they’d do to our truck as we slumbered peacefully in a Motel 6 — we figured we’d wake up, go outside and find it either in a tree or buried 50 feet underground. Or TP’d, if they were feeling lazy. If they got really angry before we reached the hotel, we were certain they’d chew through a bridge as we passed beneath it, crushing and killing us instantly.
We turned on the radio so it would be difficult to overhear us. But even that offered little solace, as the two of us ended up staging an impromptu Monster Boys’ Chorus (as we imagined it) concert. We have no way of knowing if this group actually exists, but we’re pretty confident that it does.
Carly: Here’s the thing. The inbreds might not be the most cultured group of people in the world, but if there’s one thing they are SERIOUS about, it’s the Boys’ Chorus. There is only one dialect coach in the depths of the woods, and his sole job is to coach the boys on their enunciation. Unfortunately, the dialect coach is, himself, an inbred. And as such has an extremely limited understanding of the English language, and an even more limited catalogue of early 00’s pop music.
As a result, the Boys’ Chorus don’t so much sing as yell tunelessly, but you can bet you will hear every syllable in each word. Also, the dialect coach bases his teachings on his limited DVD collection, which include Victorian romances, and Jeff Dunham stand up. This, of course, means the Boys Shout their songs in a strange hybrid of british and southern accents.
So, while their rendition of Uncle Kracker’s “Follow Me” may not be very good, they are the only Boys Chorus in town, and as such, are quite famous.
Thankfully, and shockingly, we managed to make it to Brooklyn without incident. But there is one box labeled “Christmas Decorations” that has yet to be opened, and until I see that there are, in fact, ornaments and not multiple inbreds in there, I’m keeping my guard up.