Gullible Travels

Chapter One:
A Prince Among Pansies

I set out on the fifth of May, in a sturdy craft packed with provisions. The Metro she was christened, and her maker assured me of many safe returns from far-flung voyages, and chicks like Chamberlain. I was held aloft by her chariot wheels, crafted by the master B.F. Goodrich himself, and I carried forth under the thundering power of nearly seventy horses.

The voyage was itself long and hard, like a Kennedy at a dorm shower window, and carried on for some days. Weather patterns were unfavorable for navigation, and a map confiscated from a fast-food eatery proved unreliable at best. Yet still I traveled on, through the thatch of roadways and bypasses which bore me forward across this great land.

Brave like an Indian, I sallied forth to lay claim to an uncharted land, one which I could then chart, so as not to be lost all of the time. And though this heretofore-uncharted land would then cease to be as such, it would be my own charted land, as indicated by the flag tied around that tree over there. Yes, the one that looks like an old ripped up work shirt. It is but a humble flag and knows it, your comments are not necessary.

Along my journeys in search of uncharted, or at least unattended, land, I've come across many a fantastic and unbelievable place. Many scoff at my tales of Friscopolis, but I assure you that there is such a location; I have seen it with mine own eyes and have carried the memory of that place in the seat of my pants for many years.

I was headed for the north of Wales when an easterly wind and a sale on box wine blew me off course, and I awoke in a roadside motel in a strange city by a beautiful bay. The people of this place looked to be normal but spoke in a strange, lisping dialect as if their tongues had been clipped in some unspoken primitive ritual. Their customs were also strange to me, and at first inflamed my anus. But with time I became acclimated to their culture and the strange physiology of the people, where many of the men had breasts and the women penises.

Stranger still was the general absence of children, as the women instead spent their time dancing, cooking and donning fantastic wigs for public exhibition. Their means of procreation were unknown to me, as the only children I saw while there were apparently shipped from another land and bore no resemblance to either parent.

I lived with the people of Friscopolis for several weeks in a latex-scented reverie, drinking in the culture and customs, having my hair done several dozen times, and being assaulted by the local police department several times in a string of unrelated misunderstandings. But before the month was out I contracted a strange itching rash around my genitals, which the natives told me was an allergic reaction to the high saline content in the Friscopolis air. Sadly, I had to depart this magical land, as I also owed a lot of money to a local element that could charitably be described as disagreeable.

I left Friscopolis with mine eyes opened to a wider world, and with several piercings and Cher tattoos that would later ensure a hostile reception in the next fantastic land I visited accidentally: Kentuckiana.

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