What does one with a lovely spring weekend and no discernable plans?
Why, road trip to deep southern Virginia to rub the Confederates’ collective nose in the memory of their ignoble surrender for the 140th time. Of course.
Road trips rarely work out as planned which is why, after a detour into downtown D.C. the dude we were going to pick up explained he had just badly sprained his ankle. Since we’re pals we offered to stick around and thoroughly medicate him, make sure he was good in the AM and then head south.
The total trip should have taken a hair under six hours. Counting the overnight stop it took us a hair under seventeen. Finally on the scene we find out it’s a total git-fest. The top secret Mess of the Damned manual declares that on such occasions one should raise their arms to the sky, holler “What the f**K?!” in shame and disbelief and then proceed to reenact righteously.
Or at least to look righteous while not reenacting.
Exhibit A: Dicky Mo
Only the truly civilised bring a cocktail shaker to a dirty, cold, muddy gig in the middle of a redneck infested parking lot in southern Virginia.
This sort of gig is “. . . only for those with true grit. And we are chock full of that, man.”