Actually, it IS Rocket Science


One time we were in the middle of nowhere.

Everyone was tired.  The van had started to smell like laptop exhaust and the remnants of the footlong sandwich Brian had been working on but since given up on several days ago that had been basting in the sun for, well, that long.  We had to get gas before leaving and we always tried to choose a station that had the sketchiest convenience store possible.  But you know, sketchy enough to pick up some odd ass shit from the “toys” department but not sketchy enough to give us trichinosis.

At around an 8am shove off time after only getting back at 2:30am, you’re tired, to say the least.  But that good kind of tired where you’re sort of happy because you had a good reception from the show you played the night before and to top it off the amount of alcohol you drank didn’t THIS-IS-SPARTA the shit out of your innards.

I got out while Greg gassed up to inspect the convenience store and hopefully find enough coffee and beef jerky to keep me occupied for the continuing several hour drive.  Ted followed me into the convenience store and scratched at his shoulder while looking around between candy bars, then down the aisle toward the motor oil, then toward the fridge section back behind the road maps.  No.  After glancing over, it was clear he was searching for something.  And to her credit, the cashier noticed as well, and offered her assistance.



“Are you looking for the restroom?”

“…Uh.  No. …Umm… …Chillidogs?”