PURE LARD: (KILLER) CARS

Damn. I was hoping Wayne would write some curt, funny, drunken intro for my column of rambling crap, Pure Lard. But he done told me to do it. So,.. uh,.. Pure Lard's been around since 1997. But now that it's in tastes like chicken, maybe people will read it. And, hopefully, make love to it!
I drove eight hours from Columbus, Ohio to Milwaukee, Wisconsin a while back. Had my soda, Vivarin, candy bars, blow-- I was ready to not fall asleep and do it to it! Longest solo trip ever for me. Well, I was solo in mine own car, but my friend and MASTER, Wayne, was leading the way, as Milwaukee is his hometown.
(His family settled in Milwaukee after they fled Red North Korea back in ’83. Hey, that same year, Return of the Jedi, Superman III, and my sister debuted! Wow. Insert line about geekdom/lack of lady love here. No. Strike that. Don’t. I’m turning over a new leaf. Whoa. Holy crap. This parenthetical aside is now longer than the main, on-subject paragraph! I wonder what would happen if I just allowed myself to veer completely astray from my intended story, and just let the randomness of the parentheses (as I use them in the Lard) take over. What? Holy,.. mother of–- I just used parentheses inside of parentheses!!! This is too dangerous. Gotta end this “aside” NOW!)
Dang. Uh, anyway, eight hours driving a car is, to me, like,.. EIGHT HOURS DRIVING A MUH–FUCKIN’ CAR!!! See, dear readers, I hate driving. Loathe it, in fact. It makes me more nervous than an episode of the second season of Project Greenlight. (With those creepy, passive aggressive directors, Kyle and Efrem, trying to rewrite my girl Erica Beeney’s script in preproduction AND as they shoot it. What nerve! What gall! Those two arrogant amateurs wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit them over the head with a heavy handed metaphor! I’m doing it again, aren’t I? The excessive parenthetical shenanigans and goings-on? Sorry.)
Yeah, anyway, driving blows. It ain’t natural; us willfully cramming ourselves into these metal (or plastic, nowadays) boxes, often approaching speeds well in the excess of what I believe God and George Washington and Allah intended man to travel when they created America and the Earth, way back in “olden times”. Like, 1942 or something-- before I was even born. Seriously. If we were meant to go upwards of 80 miles per hour, we’d have wheels and,.. metal bodies. Or whatever. (Ha ha! Resisted the siren-like call of the parentheses there, didn’t I, friends in Lard for life? Just played it cool and stayed on track. Unlike Efrem in Project Greenlight. He asked for a new car in a production meeting just because my Erica had to have one. She’s from Columbus, Ohio! Hello? She had NO car in L.A.! You do, Efrem, you whiney cracker! You-- Fuck. My. Cock. Did it again. Damn. But, anyway, missed the episodes? Check ‘em in reruns. Or on DVD. It’s worth it. Wait-- uh,.. where the H-E-double hockey sticks was I?)
Right.
The worst part of the trip, or of any trip, was going through downtown Chicago. I thought it’d be like Cousin Larry-- before Balki rudely inserted himself into his life-- going to Chi-Town for a new start. “It’s my life! My dreams!”–- sing along–- “And nothin’s gonna stop me now!” Then that harmonica solo comes in. Yeah. Perfect Strangers. You know what I’m writin’ about. When is that gonna come out on DVD? Everything else is. And Perfect Strangers is some quality funny stuff. Why, I-- holy,.. I did it again! No. Wait. I didn’t. This Balki and Larry hullabaloo isn’t parenthetical. “Don’t be ridiculous!” Love the way Bronson Pinchot delivered that witty catch phrase. Genius. (Wait–- where was I? Oh, yeah. Driving through downtown Chicago, even at 11:45PM, is insane. Wayne (who claims to be insane) was all, “This is where it gets crazy, Tits!” (That’s what he calls me,.. in my head.) “Stay on my furry ass!” And so I–- hold it. Hold it! Is this in parentheses now? The main story is in parentheses? And I have two,.. no,.. now THREE parentheses within this parenthetical flava? Pfft. Look, this,.. this is a problem. I gotta go. Sorry about this whole mess. Not sleepin’ well and,.. no. No excuses. My bad. This paragraph is now at least two or three paragraphs, huh? Poop. I gotta go. Um,.. good day.)
VISIT D.J. AT PURELARD.NET.