RESURRECT DEAD ON PLANET JUPiTER

What a Frustrating Weekend

So this weekend I decided to kick back and relax out in Amish country. The whole trip was precipitated by a craving for sliced ham, pickled eggs and tapioca pudding. Sometimes there’s nothing better.

Once I was full though, my thoughts turned to sex.

I did the usual, cruising the streets of Paradise, PA, whistling at Amish girls and looking all flashy in my motorized vehicle, but for some reason I wasn’t having any luck. Cruising for Mennonites can be rough. Full on Amish girls are even harder. In a change in strategy, I drove down to Route 23. I’d had some success there in the past. One time I met this inbred dairy wench that could churn butter back to cream.

But anyway, after being struck down in Churchtown and neighboring Goodville I drove over to Blue Ball. I hadn’t run into Blue Ball since high school. I’d even forgotten the uncomfortable feeling I used to get from Blue Ball. But there I was. Even though it was a little unpleasant, it was the biggest town around. Getting through Blue Ball was my best chance at scoring so I stopped at the corner bar and ordered a drink. They had Bud, Bud Light and Miller High Life, so I ordered whiskey.

The Blue Ball bar was a desperate place full of desperate men. It didn’t take long to see that life in Blue Ball weighed these people down. The men shifted uncomfortably on their stools, looks of frustration on their faces, nursing their shitty beers in some horrible Blue Ball limbo.

By contrast, the women were surprisingly upbeat. Whatever caused the throbbing, gut wrenching anxiety in Blue Ball, it only affected the men. I chatted with a nice brunette named Cindy. We talked about her hopes, dreams and some other crap. Things were going great and when we hit the dance floor, I thought I’d be busting through that Blue Ball barrier in no time.

Cindy told me to meet her later that night at her house in Intercourse. She promised me apples from her garden and fresh baked corn muffins. She slipped her number and address into my back pocket and told me to meet her at 9PM.

And that’s when things went wrong.

After finishing my last whiskey, I slipped out to my car, ready to hit the road. I felt fine, but for some reason my court ordered breathalizer said that I was too “drunk” to drive. It was bullshit, but I couldn’t start my car without a clean readout. I slammed the dashboard with both fists and fell out of the car into the gravel parking lot.

That’s when I realized that it was 8:30PM and I was stuck in Blue Ball with no way to Intercourse. My map told me that the trip was an agonizing 9.5 miles. I decided to run it. The last time I’d been to Blue Ball was for a statewide track meet. I’d run my way out of Blue Ball before and I could do it again. Unfortunately for me, I was a decade out of condition. With the promise of Cindy’s farm grown apples and the assumption that I would have sex with her also, I didn’t care how out of shape I was.

I hit the pavement. With every step, I drew closer to Intercourse, leaving Blue Ball far behind. But unfortunately, with every dry, pounding motion the pain and cramping just got worse. I started to doubt myself. Could I really get from Blue Ball to Intercourse? As I ran, I called Cindy on my cell and told her the problem. It was so hard I said, and I really, really wanted to come. She gave me a deadline of 10PM. After that, she was feeding her muffin to the dog and going to bed.

At 9:40, just 2 miles from Intercourse I buckled over, a cramp freezing my groin. I couldn’t move. That was it and I knew it. I wouldn’t make it to Intercourse. I lay in the shoulder all night, frustration and pain holding me down. Eventually I masturbated and went home.