Come on, he said. Get in the car, he said. It’ll be great, he said. You’ll like it, he said.
You see this coming a mile away, don’t you?
“I’ll take you on a nice, scenic drive through the wine country, raincoaster,” said Metro. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Sure did. So into the car hopped one unsuspecting Vancouverite.
I should have suspected something when I spotted the sign that said we were on the road to the dump. “Sanitary landfill,” excuse me.
Eventually we toured quite a slice of the back country, the kind of mountains where the Akeleys and Whatleys confer on strangely bald mountaintops, between huge menhirs placed there by unknown beings long before the Poquassetts settled the land in the tenth century BC.
We passed the dump at about minute fifteen. I should have jumped. The raccoons would have been swift and merciful.
Instead, we did not turn around until well past the dump, well past the reservoir, well past the…fucking pavement’s end. Eventually the gravel turned to rocks and boulders, and Metro was persuaded to give up or sacrifice the undercarriage of the non-off-road-equipped Ford.
We turned around, actually, just past the sign that said we had reached Cowpat Farm.
We had left Lovecraft territory entirely, and entered Shirley Jackson‘s godforsaken lands.
raincoaster 
Actually, according to the plan I was supposed to boot Raincoaster out on the shoulder and leave her there.
Not only that, but the she’s indulging a very nasty vice. In a grotesque parody of relativity she has made her way around the net, only to meet and devour herself coming the other way.
I offer you, the reader or Avid Fan, this snippet from one of Raincoaster’s more coherent entries on Metroblog:
“Today, they offered me a “scenic drive in the wine country.” I nearly jumped out as we passed the landfill, heading up the gravel road to the looming, Lovecraftian mountains. Ain’t nuthin between there and the Yukon, but fortunately Metro bailed on the Everest climbing routine ’round about the time we passed, I kid you not, Cowpat Farm.”
Raincoaster, posting on Metroblog, July 6, ’06.
Does it not reek with irony that the post quoted above–and cannibalised, still further above–eventually resolves into a near-lucid account of the plagiarism of Ann Coulter?
Blondes with crispy skin, you know.
Don’t worry darling, Mastercowfish and I love you and we’ll take care of you in your clearly-rapidly-approaching senesence.
Affectionately yours, Metro.
PS: We’re out of wine (yet again) for some reason.
Metro, Metro, Metro: you call having a liter and a half of Sonora Ranch cab and a good, solid liter of Sauvignon Blanc Sangria being “Out of wine”??? Who’s the alcoholic now?
I am shocked to find that you, a professional editor, are unaware of the practice of recycling material. As copyright owner, it is my right to use your blog for my first, less-than-perfect drafts. It is also my preference.
This isn’t repetition; it is corroboration!
It depends on the location of the wine in question. Since, typically, wine stored in my fridge or cupboards this week is no more than a half-hour away from the short journey down your swan-like gullet and through your doubtless-attractive kidneys, I consider any liquor you can actually find to be a debit, net.
And while much of your material may be suitable for recycling (thank the gods that blogging is paperless, eh?), “recycling” doesn’t really mean “to put to the same purpose elsewhere in desperation to fill the blank page that mocks me”.
Honestly, if you’re running out of bloggable ideas, you should just post a bunch of videos from YouTube or something . . .
Hugs,
Metro
PS: Are you going back to the winery again today? Not that we’re concerned, just asking is all.
Metro, is it that time of the month for you? My, my, one wishes to be charitable and believe that you have an actual job to do, but the evidence is all to the contrary. Either you’re PMSing or you’re still hungover from Sunday.
Gatorade, either way.
By a curious co-incidence, I am in fact suffering from PMS. Note that I can’t actually have PMS for biological reasons–I’m sure my wife could explain them to you.