The day after Christmas, Tom, Emily, Evan, and I took a daytrip to Leavenworth, a tiny psuedo-Bavarian tourist-trap town nestled on the other side of the Cascade mountains. We spent the trip there singing loudly and obnoxiously–there may, in fact, be video evidence of us singing/screaming “Paradise City” by Guns N Roses. I was still running really low on sleep, but high on caffeine from the mega-gulp-size Americano I chugged on the way over. By the time we got to Leavenworth, I had to pee really, really, really, really badly. I had mentioned it at one point in the car, and Emily snipped at me to “Hold it!” so I dutifully held it and fantasized about blasting over the snow-and-ice-covered landscape like some sort of urine-stuffed jetpack anime nightmare, cackling wildly and leaving a trail of yellow snow in my wake. I never claimed that my fantasy world was a good place. Regardless, by the time we got there, I was getting pretty desperate to find a restroom, so we barged into the first store we came upon after we parked, begging to use their facilities. After my moments of blessed relief, I came to and realized I was in the tackiest place I’d ever been in over the course of my life, and this includes Tijuana. I didn’t realize this last time I’d been here, as everything was closed, but the knowledge that I was now entering Tackyville, USA, settled about my shoulders like a bedazzled cloak. It really struck me when I looked up at the wall and saw a truly terrible painting of a nude woman. It was clear from this painting that the artist wanted to solely paint some breasts, based on the way they were carefully rendered and lighted, but ultimately decided he needed to add the rest of the body as well, the aspects of which he was obviously less familiar as the face resembled nothing so much as a melted candle. Nearly everything in the store was tagged “I love junk”, so I suppose at least they don’t believe they’re getting anything over on the visitors.
I wonder what sort of “goods” they “sell” here?
We hit the tacky tourism jackpot with a store dedicated solely to Christmas, which particularly specialized in a series of “life-size” elves ripped straight from my darkest nightmares. These elves did not grin jollily, they leered. They were not gesticulating merrily with their hands, they were groping. I’m certain their mouths were frozen in place while mouthing satanic curses. Their eyes follow you around the room, piercing you, letting you know they’re watching, always watching. I did not like these elves, and, in fact, wanted to set fire to the store in a bold act of heroism.
As I progressed through the store, flicking my bic, I discovered that just about anything can be turned Christmassy to turn a profit on this, the most profitable holiday of the year.
They also had a statuette of Santa praying over the baby Jesus’ manger, that moved and played music when you turned a key at the bottom. The problem was, the movement involved the baby Jesus’ cradle rocking back and forth into Santa’s lap in a terrible religious travesty blowjob.
Santa is always watching. Even from dark hallways, always watching.
I don’t know how I’d feel about this stern bear staring at me every time I reached for another square of toilet paper. Is he frowning on my lack of environmentalism? Mad because I use the plush stuff that’s like wiping with a handful of puppies instead of the sandpapery recycled stuff? Or is he just upset that this is not a task that a member of his noble species should be relegated to? It was at this store that we found another addition to Pirates You Can Stick Your Dick Into: The Series–the cumguzzler pirate. I’m up to two so far: the skullfuck pirate and the cumguzzler pirate, and I strongly feel there should be a third to round out the series. I may have to resort to making my own blowjob pirate. Then, they go on a shelf in my pirate bathroom, with musuem lighting. Other people dream about owning a business or traveling around the world. My dreams are a bit sad by comparison.
Isn’t he majestic?
We all decided we didn’t have the cojones to check out the nutcracker museum, as our sleeping hours were already set to be defiled by those hideous elves, and we didn’t need any more nightmare fuel. We did, however, stop at a cheesemonger’s shop and stuff ourselves full of cheese samples, and then stopped at a soft pretzel store and proceeded to cram a pretzel down our throats along with more cheese. The pretzel shop had a number of nutcracker paintings along the walls, reminding us that we were in the bavarian town of Leavenworth, in case we had forgotten. I sincerely feel this nutcracker is interested in stomping more than just leaves:
Emily worked pretty hard at being Evan’s hat rack, and he bought so many hats that they gave him a free pair of novelty glasses, which he passed on to her as a tip. Somehow, trying on hats works up a powerful hunger, and we decided to have lunch–Emily and Tom elected to go to the town’s Mexican restaurant, while I insisted on something a little more German, and Evan agreed. We ended up at a restaurant called King something-or-other, where the sour smell of Germany hung in the air. The stout little German waitress led us to their primo window seat, which was a bonus for us but maybe not so great for the restaurant, and we sat and poured over the menu. Evan decided to go with some sort of meat platter and add yet another kind of apostrophied meat to it for a mere twenty bucks.
Me? My eye caught something on the menu called “Wiener Art” and I knew that’s what I was going to consume, as I am bound by pretty rigid laws when it comes to hilarity–if there’s an opportunity for it, I must take it unless it will put my life in serious danger, and even then, unless a hospital visit is practically guaranteed, I should still do it. Evan and I laughed over the name Wiener Art for a very long time. Laughed until we ached. Laughed until we cried. I ordered it, and then we laughed again. Would it be infused with the robust taste of wiener? I’d find out shortly.
Mine was not merely wiener art, it was a wiener masterpiece. A wiener renaissance. Wiener. Evan was not so pleased with his meat platter, the only meat he really enjoyed was the equivalent of German Fancy Spam. So, with plenty of extra meat on our hands, and an endless number of tourists stopping to take photographs next to the window behind which we were eating, we began to photobomb. We’d stab huge chunks of meat with our forks and gesticulate wildly. I played “See? Food!” with more than one tourist–a young Japanese kid along with a tour bus group caught me with my mouth hanging open for someone’s photograph and laughed so hard I was certain he was going to wet himself. I bet he can’t wait until those family portraits get passed around! I decided I wasn’t a fan of red cabbage, and made my own, non-wiener-based art. On our way out, I ran into some of Aisling’s family, who were very sweet and said they’d missed me at Christmas this year. Washington really is a very small state, considering we drove for hours and I still bumped into someone I knew. That, or I’m the new Kevin Bacon and everyone on earth is connected to me via six steps or less.