I smelled the company in the air, I'm like that witch from Hocus Pocus, except with company instead of children. X was in and he had brought a magical little box with him. Within minutes, Pandora's box was opened and all the evils of smart TV were unleashed upon us. Netflix, HBO Go, Amazon Instant and even one actually called Pandora, where does one begin? By searching up old cartoons you can't see anymore and Goosebumps, of course.
Today was the day we would tackle that bleedin' hole in the rock the right way. We got 'lost as fuck' according to Google Maps, then a simple little road off the zoo route got us there. Rabbits, squirrels and chipmunks were all over the joint and in about five minutes we were up in the hole. The view was pretty stunning, you could see what seemed like all of Phoenix, all of Camelback, all of the smog, there in all its glory. The cool thing, though, was when other weary hikers came up and told us they could see us, then told us where from. Was fucking miles away.
After dropping Sheba off and having disappointingly few tales of battle royales with rattlesnakes and scorpions, I decided to do Lady Saw and myself the service of spreading the Sherlock virus. I'm pleased to report that the Nancy household can now be counted in the fanbase. That Netflix thing, I think it's time to stop being so luddite and get it. Note to self: get Akira watched.
We popped to Wal Mart with all its cheap as chimps alcohol and stupidly expensive Sherlock box sets, left with two cases of water and a case of Budweiser and headed to good old #3. The entertainment wasn't the uge (is it catching on yet?) basketball, it was this odd show featuring a lot of cheat sheets and words beginning with B called Step By Step. I retreated and hid in the world of the bubble game on my phone. The pressure is always on with that motherfucker, as Debbie clearly knew - "Leave him alone, he's trying to play his bubble game!" and that I was.
When we got back, ready to get Malibu'd and beered up, we stuck on The Expendables. I nearly had a testosterone overdose just watching that pantomime of manliness. Ol' Sylvester is alright in my book, la. Stone Cold too! You can't kill him, that just can't be done. Yabby Bassey, when I get home, we are watching Summerslam 2000 and you will like it, bitch. And that's the bottom line, cause, well, you know.
We finished up by making Nancy cry over John Lewis adverts. Seriously. I also got introduced to the pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-power of Terry Crews ads. That man is my new hero.
"It must be me that's rushing by, time just lingers on the wind"
In a bit.