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7:40 a.m. - 2004-08-02


Sunday, July 25 8:25 a.m.

We hit the road for our "vacation" into the Smokey Mountains.

Sunday, July 25 11:55 a.m.

I realize that I forgot to pack the camera and videocamera. Andrew learns some new curse words such as "Stupid Cumfuckle" and "Bitch Shittin' Pisswad".

Sunday, July 25 12:00 p.m.

On a spur of the moment decision, we decide to "See Rock City" on the insistance of many dilapidated barns.

Alright barns. We get it. We're fucking losers if we don't "See Rock City". Now stop with your not-so-subliminal seduction.

(A sidenote: While Susie and Andrew had never been to Rock City, I went when I was 10 and was scarred for life. There's a portion of the tour called "Fat Man's Squeeze" where you HAVE to walk between two huge boulders that are about 18 inches apart. As a husky 10 year-old, this area of the attraction traumatized me to the point of instilling claustrophobia in me, a phobia I still suffer from today.)

So we're walking through Rock City and admiring its natural beauty when the inevitable happens.

Fat Man's Squeeze.

Now as a kid, the trauma wasn't actually justified because the name of the thing is "Fat Man's Squeeze" and not "Husky Dumb Kid's Squeeze".

But I'm older now.

And fatter.

And 'fraider.

So we started our descent into madness with Andrew merrily leading the way into this hell.

As you can see, there's this troll, this spawn of Satan himself who waves at you as you foolishly walk to your death. Notice the guy at the bottom of the photo goading his young daughter to his death.

"Drink the Kool-Aid, dear...drink it all."

Here's a guy about 97 lbs. soaking wet having to turn SIDEWAYS to make it through the damned thing.


Here's a family that got stuck inside Fat Man's Squeeze and have been there since 1967.

Ahhhh ... the Squeeze. She takes many a man's life and gives nothing in return.

I'll be honest ... one more double burger from Wendy's and I would have never made it out of that thing alive.

I was turned sideways and at one point, both my back and my tummy were touching rock.

But I made it.

I expected a great fanfare when my fat ass squeezed out from inside those rocks.

Instead, the tour just kept on going without any confetti or balloons.

Still, it's comforting to know that I can make it through Fat Man's Squeeze and don't have to have a pimply faced tour guide pull me aside and show me an optional passageway that bypasses the Squeeze for my safety.

Like the fat-assed hillbilly behind us.

Sunday, July 25 6:00 p.m.

We arrive in Sevierville, Tennessee, home of the cheap-assed souvenir and get checked in to our hotel which is nice.

Here's the view from our balcony.

Sharp eyes would detect that we were right behind the Nascar Cafe.

Which is proof that we were indeed in Tennessee.

(We had also purchased a disposable camera, which is what the rest of these pictures were taken on. So forgive me for the quality of pics.)

Monday, July 26 3:30 p.m.

We show up at the place where we were to be given a two-hour time share presentation which is what we were doing there in the first place.

For those of you whose memories may have faded over the past year: My Godfather apparently owns a time share with these people. He referred me to them and they called me last summer, offering me "Four days and three nights in the beautiful Smokey Mountains for $100". I gave them my credit card number and THEN they said "Oh, by the way, this is a time share deal and you'll have to sit through a two hour presentation."


So we get there and I have no intention of buying a time share with them.

Monday, July 26, 3:35 p.m.

The sales guy (who admitted he was new) says "On a scale of 1 to 10, how important is taking a vacation to you with 1 being not important and 10 being very important?"

(He expects me to say "7". Everyone says "7".)

"1," I reply dryly.

"One?" he asks, temporarily dropping the little chart in his hand.

"Yes, one," I say. "I'd much rather stay at home than go on a vacation."

"Excuse me a minute," the kid says, walking away from our table and going to confer with an older, sleazier man.

The old, sleazy guy walks over to us, squeezing the oil from his mustache so that it ran down the front of his shirt and says "You don't take vacations?"

"Nope," I said. "This is the first vacation we've taken since 1988 when we went on our honeymoon."

(A total lie, but not too far from the truth)

"Well there's nothing we can say that will change your mind," he says. "Is it a financial matter?"

"No," I said. "I can afford vacations. I would just rather sit in my house and do things around the house."

The man looked at me as if I was puking blood all over myself.

"Don't you want to see your son's tiny footsteps in the sand at the ocean? Don't you want to hold his hand as he steps off the plane in Hawaii?" he starts spewing.

"Nah," I said. "I just want him to clean his room."

Monday, July 26, 3:50 p.m.

Our two-hour presentation lasts 20 minutes. We're given our $25 for gas, a $25 gift card for Cracker Barrel and dinner for two at Dolly Parton's Dixie Stampede, a $60 value.

So we actually got more back than we put towards the hotel.

And didn't have to sit through the presentation.

Go us!

Monday, July 26, 10:00 p.m.

We leave the Dixie Stampede, which bills itself as the "most fun place to eat on Earth" or something like that.

Personally, I think a more fun place to eat would be from the flat stomach of the anorexic naked Olson twin, but that's neither here nor there.

The Dixie Stampede has great food if you don't mind buffalo stampeding all around you while you're trying to eat and kicking up chunks of dirt and fossilized horse shit into your soup.


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