Sunday, April 29, 2007

Grand Rapids, Land of a Lost Youth

Before I launch yet another brilliant post, I must propose a "Google-off" between the fair cities of Boise, Idaho and Grand Rapids, Michigan.

I went searching for a good image of Grand Rapids on Google Images. I searched and searched....and searched. They had lots of wonderful little screenshots of maps--here's East GR; here's Hudsonville, etc. They had a number of pictures depicting Mel Trotter's gravesite. They had lots of pictures of really sketchy looking people claiming GR as their motherland. I had to go all the way to page 12 (that's about 11 "o's" in the Goooooooogle) to find this lovely shot of the river and all the lights of downtown.

Hmmmph! Type in Boise, ID and you get some cool stuff right on the first page. So, anyway, give it a whirl if ye dare.

I've decided (well, strictly speaking, my lovely wife decided) that it's time for a triumphant return visit to Grand Rapids. I invite all of you to come see us. We'll be staying somewhere luxurious. Probably the Super 8 out on the outskirts of Sparta. Clear your calendars for the week surrounding July 4th.

As I contemplate a return to your country, my mind is crowded with memories. I lived through all the human emotions there--hope, enthusiasm, despair, fear, dread, love, anger, elation, and a burning desire for IHOP. I gained a few things in GR--3 lovely children, some forehead wrinkles and gray hairs. I lost my youth, and, frankly, I'm pretty peeved by that.

In an effort to restore the years that the locusts have eaten, I am proposing a bacchanal of Roman porportions. Here's how I see it:

Day One: We meet in front of the Van Andel Arena. I arrive by stretch Humvee limousine. The arrangement is that I am luxuriating on the roof of this prestigious vehicle while (shivering--or sweating depending upon the gods of weather) scantily clad swimsuit models ply me with strawberries, whipped cream and Cheez Whiz.

Upon arriving, I am lifted on to the back of a well groomed giraffe and take a couple of elegant turns around the arena grounds while a gloriously turned-out band plays a specially composed anthem (Stupit, I think you are capable of arranging this...thanks in advance) in my honor. "Jacob, He's So Great, We Can't Believe He's Back In Town"...something like that.

After you all greet me with respect and adoration, we jump into the limo and, without regard to potholes, speed down to Charley's Crab for a lovely champagne brunch. After this feast, I flamboyantly produce an obscenely large wad of $100's from my ostrich skin money belt and scatter them with disdain over the wreckage of our tables. The gorgeous waitresses fight madly over the loot and all somehow end up naked and covered with whipped cream and rose petals.

We are then picked up in the parking lot by a gleaming helicopter and lift off majestically through the funky odors of downtown GR. We spend most of the morning taking spins over the city and picking out the homes or offices of those who have wronged us. When we discover one, we hover low and take turns dropping bags of dog poop strategically so they'll step in them.

In the early afternoon, we land on the lacrosse field of East Grand Rapids. Several brawny special security types use laser welding torches to cut down sections of the fence so we can pass unimpeded. We stroll across to Rose's Restaurant and demand to take over the whole deck by the edge of Reed Lake. Several patrons demure and our security types throw them and their lunches into the lake.

We all laugh and, as they mill about soggily, try to hit them with balled-up dollar bills wrapped around empty escargot shells.

We gorge ourselves and shoot highly illegal fireworks out over the lake. Several sail boats are hit and burn elegantly while their owners swim back to shore.

We helicopter back to the Amway Grand Plaza and clean up with a skinny dip in their rooftop pool. After a long nap, we awaken at about 6:30 pm and don our most sartorially splendid party duds for a night on the town.

Our progress through the town that night is chronicled by members of the press and television media. I wish I had more space and time to describe it, but the scenes are so vivid, so effervescently hedonistic, and so irresponsibly evil that this blog would be forced by the FCC to shut down were I to fully tell the story.

Day Two: Jail

Day Three: Jail


Anonymous said...

Hey Swine a.k.a. Pickle Weasel,
This is pretty funny. I can hardly wait for the day to arrive. I have never eaten at Charley's Crab. Of course with all your hundred dollar bills flying about I expect you are going to pay for all of us who show up to greet you. We will no doubt have all our friends there. So you can can't on a large crowd of about four including me and Craig. We are very popular here. Well, hurry July 4th.

Anonymous said...

As one who despises the very idea of such a thing as a Grand Rapids-- it is in sooth the Twilight Town of C.S. Lewis' Great Divorce-- and the miasma of smug fear that pervades it and holds its denizens prisoner, I find that at last we are together, Brother Pickle, mon semblable, fellow blackheart me lad.

But my imaginary return is composed of evil deeds the like of which can only be imagined by bloodthirsty pirates. Arr. Let us hope I never write it. Mwa ha indeed.

Jacob Nordby said...

Stupit's Wifey (aka, Escargot Slime),

Yeah, I'm pretty excited about visitin' myself.

Unfortunately the part about my obscenely large wad of $100's was just about as fanciful as the part about poop-bombing from a helicopter.

However...I know we'll have fun.

Also, Foodaddy's Daddy,

Common ground at last mi amigo! I was being generous to the denizens of the accursed land lest they make my sojourn there more miserable than necessary.


Anonymous said...

Stoopid... denizens!

Paul FooDaddy Brand said...

Nickel Peezle, this is some good stuff. When you come to town, stretch Humvee and all, you mustn't leave before you've visited the penultimate dining experience. Atmosphere, cuisine, abundance of septuagenarians...

I'm referring, of course, to Bob Evans.

Unknown said...

Charley's Crab....ah...Brings back great memories....The area nearby is pretty dicey these days, but worth taking a flack jacket for dinner...

Best from China

Jacob Nordby said...

Is it seriously THAT dicey? When I left town about 3 1/2 years ago, they were really cleaning up around Fulton St and that part...whatever became of Cherry St. Landing or whatever they called it?

Jack W. Regan said...

I think Lonnie was exaggerating a tad. You'll notice he said, "Best from China," so how would he know? Unless he's been zooming in on Goooogle maps and witnessed a murder or two and didn't report them. That's really frowned upon, Lon.

Oh, and Wheeze, I think you should definitely set a weekend evening aside so that the Blog of Stupid members can actually do some of the things you mentioned. Especially the strategic poop-dropping.

Jacob Nordby said...

I really agree about that weekend evening, Craig.

I'll bet you have been maintaining a "Should Be Poop-Bombed" list complete with addresses and psychological profiles for years now. At least we won't have to sit around and decide who gets crapped upon.

I can't find fault with any of the seemingly excessive activities I described, actually.

For normal mortals, this sort of behavior wouldn't work. For Members of the Shrine of Stupidity, however, it's just another day in paradise.

Paul FooDaddy Brand said...

It's a well known fact that a certain level of stupidity has to be reached before one can spend one's time going around pretending to be strategically dead.

By that I mean locating highly visible public places and lying down with your eyes and mouth open and pretend to be dead.

The idea is to see how many kids poke you with sticks before some responsible type comes to check your pulse.

Paul FooDaddy Brand said...

To explain for those fathers out there who claim that sequiturs like this cannot be non:

Knuckle Weasel says that it takes a certain type of cretin to man up to doing such crazy, psychopathic things as drop poo on people from helicopters.

I'm saying that it also takes a very special brand of dope to pretend to be dead in the mall.

I hope that alleviates some confusion in Time-Wasterland.

Jacob Nordby said...

geez, Foop

You definitely put the non back in non sequitur--I don't care how you try to package it up afterwards, that one didn't follow.

Anyways, it was fun and reminded me of a time when I faked a seizure in the Moline, IL mall (Stupit and Wifey, you'll remember in the mall right by Hardee's burger joint?). Anyway, I fell to the ground thrashed, groaned and jerked around. My friends didn't know what the heck was going on, but decided it wasn't life-threatening. A small crowd gathered whilst they scooped me up under the arms and carried me out. Hahaha. About halfway down the corridor, I straightened up, walked "normally" and laughed at the poor nice concerned people.

Jacob PW Nordby