One day me and a buddy got off work after a long day of whistling shopping carts around in a parking lot, and we decided it was time to go for a Road Trip.
So we just started driving, and we took a wrong turn somewhere, and we ended up in Idaho.
Or mebbe it was Iowa.
Not that it matters.
But it was really weird there, man.
Yah, the place was beautiful, like a giant golf course, there were all these rolling hills, and some trees, but they were all perfectly manicured and landscaped and fake-looking, y'know, like lawns.
The sky was clear and full of stars, and the air was fresh, it was a perfect summer night, and there were all these Norman Rockwell White People from the 1950s, driving around on these shiny red old-fashioned bicycles with the little cha-ching cha-ching thingies on the handlebars, but there were no houses or anything in sight, there was just endlessly rolling golf-course hills in every direction, and a gas station, that we stopped at, 'cause there didn't seem to be anywhere else to stop.
When we got out of the car in the parking lot, all these big-eyed weird kids from the 50s came over and surrounded us, asking us questions, I can't even remember what they were asking, but they were very friendly and polite, and they were amazed that I smoked cigarettes.
So we decided to get back on the road, and head back the way we came, and just get gas later, once we found our way back to the planet earth we were used to, y'know, the one with messy trees and weeds and litter and broken glass everywhere and people with nose-rings and black mascara and tattoos on their private parts.
We're lucky we found our way out of that place, man, I mean, holy shit, it was really getting freaky there, for a second.