CoachellaHellz YeallaSo Much To TellaLets Spread On The NutellaPart I

As I write this, I’m still covered in covered in dirt, my own melted skin, the smell of hipsters, and powdered sugar from the 2 funnel cakes I ate. But worst of all, after spending two straights days in 105+ degree weather, I am without a killer tan. A lot has transpired since I last left you all. Here’s me best attempt to remember, although my brain is still on West Coast mode and my eyes are going to fall out of my head from watching so much amazingnessness stuff. Please note, all pictures will be posted at a much later date as Senor Thigh Master is too ghetto to have a digital camera…

Friday April 30th

Does masturbating in a bathroom count as initiation into the Mile High Club?

Woke up at the booty crack o’ dawn and started the longest day in my recent memory. I took the transportation of tomorrow, the AirTrain to JFK airport. Gawd deng is JFK one bunk-ass airport. Plus its so far away, I feel like I’m flying out of Siberia (the part of Russia, not the bar where you can’t cus or hit on women). On-flight entertainment: my smelly feet, NY Daily News’ two crosswords, and watching the unwatchable Paycheck (its like Total Recall with none of the fun, effects, or action, but with John Woo’s doves!). Come to think of it, the AirTrain station was more futuristic than all of Paycheck. This ben-affleck-shit-pic continues my track record of never seeing a good movie on a plane. Sure I had everwood when I saw LL in Freaky Friday on the way to Jamaica this past New Year’s, but I’ve been cursed with The Legend of Bagger Vance, Ollie Stone’s shiterpiece U-Turn and the ultimate ruinerer of flights, Uptown Girls. U-Girls‘ script must have been written on a napkin while someone was taking a dump. However, since lil daring Dakota Fanning was in it, it was predetermined that I was going to cry at some point. I am such a loser.

Arrive at LAX. Palm trees abound. I finally satisfy my nic fit. Inhale. You’re the victim. Exhale, exhale, exhale. Off to Alamo car rental. I find out there’s no basement. Madame Ruby was wrong!!! With my liz-adies (Megbot & Curious George’s Mom) in check, it’s off for some LA daytime fun.

We meet up with ye olde palsy of mine/favorite New Iberian, Big Worm, aka DJ Worsmer, aka Wormsey (Yes, I actually do know someone named Wormser). I force him to play tour guide/MapQuest bitch as there were many a missions on the day’s tight schedule and I don’t know shit about LA’s byways and hobags. First up…

Roscoe’s House of Chicken ‘n Waffles

Fried chicken makes mouths happy.

I don’t know who the funk Roscoe is, but may the good lord bless him and his house of grease. Guess what’s good there? Fried chicken and/or waffles. obvs. I declined the waffles and decided to get fried chicken smothered and covered in gravy and onions (perfect gas material for long car rides with woman). With a side of buttery grits, that shit be the shiz-niz-fliz-kiz. Any trip to LA is not complete without a visit to any of Scoe’s 5 locations. Check it out. It’s so f-in MINT that it’s posted in our Places To Eat B4 U Die section.

He’s the dog now man!

Then we had to meet up with Busta Hayman to see his wedding ring and take a qwik whirlwind tour of his office. Next stop on the tour was the uber-posh-spice/future residence of mine, The Sunset Marquis Hotel to pick up a ticket for Saturday’s show. Drugs were needed, so we hit a… drug store. Loaded up on some drugs, shady aviator glasses, candy, Orbit gum, smokes, and even more candy. With all these missions impossible accomplished, Big Worm lead me and the liz-adies to da Hollywood Hills. Next to Queen Latifah’s abode lived his friend and a fellow ex-Rocvilleian, Perry. Perry had a droopy dog name Bert that had inverted eyelid, but he was the coolest dog ever cause he was a Redskins fan. After some shenanigans the Coachella Crew was off to the desert for my just desserts.

You pay for what you get

After a few tiring hours of driving, we checked into the Four Seasons of ghetto, and our home for the next three nights, the Motel 6 of Palm Desert. I was a little disappointed in the room. The towels they gave us couldn’t even cover one of my thighs (wide shut). There wasn’t a clock. And there were no complimentary motel staples like a pen and paper, shampoo, or tissues. I thought the 6 was supposed to be a classy motel peoples!

Makes cotton mouth
disappear in seconds

It was late, but I still wanted to eat. I always want to eat. Traveling with two girls doesn’t allow a lot of fast food eating. You take what you can get and I didn’t want to push it after forcing everyone into Roscoe’s FC and Wafs. But I had to get my burger fill. Since there was no Fatburger in sight, I had to settle for second best, In-N-Out Burger… more like burger goes in and out of your system in 4 seconds. Like my good pal Tom Bodett promised, Motel 6 left the light on for me, and now it was finally time to shut it off. I’m f-in tired. Time to get this party started.

Stay tuned for Part II where we review all of Saturday’s hot ass hotness of Saturday. Saturday.

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