When I kick the bucket, I know I’m on the highway to Hates. NBD. I made a deal with the man downstairs long long ago when I traded in my soul for some bubbies and a bitchin’ sense of humor.
I tend to not think too heavily about
anything serious this subject, but I’m pretty sure Hell looks like the biking trip to Acadia National Park, combined with a lifetime of eating mayonnaise in a room in Uraguay without air coniditioning, listening to Bieber on repeat.
Where do I begin? There’s something in the water up there, and not even in an Erin Brokavich, Civil Action kind of way. I’m thinking it’s like Daywalker batter, mixed with Crack, Roast Beef, Mexican Viagra, Essence of Water Buffalo, and some Red Sox tickets. Everyone there is nuttier than a pecan-eating rabbid Squirrel. It’s cold. It’s drab. It’s like the Natasha Beige wallpaper of American cities. I think they tie with
Philly Liar-delphia with having the country’s most annoying sports fans. Their beaches (excluding Nantucket, obvs) are whack, their nickname is Beantown, as in fart city, and their airport is a glorified litter box.
Redeeming qualities: The Departed soundtrack, lots of Gingers, and Irish hot totties in Southie. And what I’d imagine to be a pretty debaucherous plop-off spot for St. Patty’s. Annnnd That’s it. So sorry PJB, Crazy Doll, and all our other loyal Bostonian buddies. Sorry we’re not sorry.
Oh, and for all of you who wait until the last minute to procure your theme costumes, these are pretty simple and oh-so effective:
84th & Second, How I miss thee…
Middle America knows how to do Slainte reaaal big.