“Short Cut” my ass.

3 Feb

The girl next to me smells like fart. Pure fart. I’m uncomfortable. Reeeal uncomfortable.

A thought occurred to me the other day as I reflected back upon every family vacation I have ever had, road-trip style-specific, of course. Every journey toward our destination had the usual phenomena: snack stops, gas stops, bathroom stops, rest-stop stops, stop-stops, and of course the two hour stop at Cabela’s.

Cabela’s pisses me off. If you’re unfamiliar with what Cabela’s is, it’s a gigantic county-sized empire-like store with zebra heads, stuffed cougars, and grizzly bears on the walls filled with everything that you could ever dream up to satisfy your hunting/fishing/mountain-hiking needs. It’s the place where white trash parents bring their kids in place of the zoo (or Six Flags), or better yet go for “summer vacation.”

For some reason, no matter what route we take via-vaca-destination, we ALWAYS end up “happening upon” a Cabela’s, and my dad decides that we HAVE to stop in. The phrase “stopping in” strikes me as a phrase that means popping into a neighbor’s house for a few minutes to say hello, but to my biological father, “stopping in” Cabela’s means MAKING it the vacation.

Dad, what do you even need in Cabela’s? Why are you looking at porpoise harpoons? We live in urban, metropolitan Iowa. Since when do you hunt lions? You don’t need this. Bows and arrows, are you serious? “Cowboys and Indians” was a game in kindergarten. Then after you’ve been there for 2+ hours and you want to find your dad to harass him until he decides to leave, you can’t find him because he’s clad in camouflage pants and boots and is now blending in with the duck-hunting section. You’re amusing yourself with fishing lures and deciding that these so-called “short cuts” were premeditated alternative routes that packed on an extra 70 minutes to the trip that Pa lied about. I’m angry just thinking about it. Next time I’m popping sleeping pills and chugging NyQuil so I’m unconscious for the Cabela’s chapter of the trip.

Me: “Kehly, I think I can smell your feet.”
Kehly: “Really?”
Me: “I don’t know, it might be my breath.”


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