We all woke up the next morning, not with the hangovers we needed, but with the hangovers we deserved. Becky and her sister came over to retrieve Chipper in the morning, she was too drunk from the previous day and had left him at our hotel. So when she came over, we got to talking and we made the spontaneous decision to have her join our LA crew. Becky rushed home to pack while the rest of us checked-out. We snapped a quick pic before leaving for breakfast:

The only time you’d see me happy that morning. My head was throbbing so I begged Dave to shoot me in the face, but he was too busy eating his breakfast sandwich.

After breakfast we parted ways. Dave and Stella to enjoy another night in Vegas before going home. Bobby to home to have his leg looked at. And the rest of us + Becky to converge on LA toward our wonderful host Neema.

It seems somewhat wrong and inconsistent to recount the happenings of LA within smelliots. Because smelliots was always envisioned as a way of sharing the lives of six friends in an RV with the people who care about them or want to track their whereabouts. And now that the RV is gone and friends have gone their separate ways, all I have left to do is reflect.

Most of my time typing and talking has been spent insulting and deprecating my friends in a very fun way. And they do the same. Its because we’re the worst people and there are so many flaws to point out in each one of us. It just goes without saying that Geoffrey “Brickface” King is the worst person on the planet.

And you would think it would be easy to say bye to such awful people. But 4 years of hanging out and multiple cross-country road trips hypnotizes you into thinking that maybe Geoffrey is more than just a shithead, Roach is more than an insect, ZZTop actually is more interesting than the Z’s in his first and last name, Nas might survive without a cabana, and Camo Dave might actually side with the Union. The last one probably isn’t true but I inserted it for the sake of parallelism. We’re shitty people who grew up together, saw the world together, laughed together, and watched Geoffrey cry and fight together. And that makes us a bit less shitty, at least in each other’s eyes. I didn’t cry when any of these people got on their planes, because I’m a man. But more importantly, there’s no sadness in friendships that aren’t ending.

If I learned anything after 4000 miles of driving, its that car seats are uncomfortable and roads are bumpy, but friends can make 5 hours seem like 5 minutes.

The Drai’s beach party started at 10 and Jiten recommended we get there by 11. When I woke up at 9, I naturally wanted to take shots. I got offered a glass of OJ, but it didn’t contain any alcohol so I declined. It’s not 10 o’ clock if you’re not looking at your drink, fearing everything about it, diluting with chaser, and feeling the aggressive burn down your throat. Best way to wake up.

So Brickface, ZZTop, and I ran over to Walgreen’s to pick up liquor. I picked out fireball cause I needed something I could take plenty of shots of in a very limited window of time. And I had already ruined Jager for myself forever. So I started drinking at 10:49, I remember the exact time because I was putting off the first drink as long as possible.

Today was bound to be a day of great nostalgia. It’s generally common sense to leave your exes in the past, but I couldn’t help myself this one time. I gave Becky a lot of space after the break-up so I figured it would be alright to reunite since we haven’t seen each other since fifth grade. She lives in Vegas so Becky and I made plans to go to the Drai’s party together.

When she came over to pregame, she brought over Chipper, the stuffed animal I bought for her in fifth grade. We all got plastered together. Just like old times.

6 drinks in.

We got into Drai’s party without any issue and Jiten, of course, came through for us again with a great bungalow.

I heard the place sold $18 long islands so I had to take advantage of the wholesale deal. Meanwhile, Becky and Stella seemed to be getting along really well. For those who don’t know Stella, she’s Camo Dave’s girlfriend and kissing girls has become somewhat of her Vegas signature. She took Becky by the hips and knew she had to have her, and Becky agreed. So most of their time at the party was spent making out, and most of my time was spent drinking long islands.

11 drinks in.

Becky and I went back to her condo complex to blaze by the pool and catch up with her sister. But what happened was that I caught up with her sister while Becky twisted and rolled in lawn chairs. Her sister was as nice as I remembered her. Got high, went back to the hotel, Becky didn’t make it.

Everyone else was napping but I wanted McDonalds. So I put on my very best McNugget clothes, included my headphones, and bopped down the street to paradise.

Here’s another piece of advice: Listen to the Kygo remix called “Shine”. It’s the single, best, most relaxing, and everything-is-okay-in-the-world song in the world. I looked at the clouds and listened to this song as I ventured to get my McNuggets and I had to stop in the middle of my walk just to think about life. I decided life was chill. Listen to this song, rain or shine.

After I fed myself, I was ready for my second phase of nostalgia. Her name was Jordan and we hadn’t shared a drink since we last saw each other in 8th grade. She was a real bold, forward girl back in the day. So I was only slightly surprised when she came over and soon restrained my limbs to shove fireball down my throat. Nice girl though.

Roach won $600 in poker so everyone was in a jubilant mood as we pregamed for the Porter Robinson show.

21 drinks in.

We headed over around 11 and got in no problem. Our table had bottle service so I spent the first half hour hanging out with Mr. Goose. After that magical quality time, I noticed someone sitting next to me that nobody recognized. I tried waking him up but he didn’t budge. Tickled him, slapped the face, nothing.  A security guard came by to pinch his nerve, at which point he woke up, looked around, and walked away.

I spent the next hour swaying from side-to-side before I realized I was far too drunk for this setting.

26 drinks in.

I started making the trek back to our hotel. Google maps said it would only be a half-mile. What Google didn’t take into account was that the Cosmopolitan casino is specifically designed to keep its prisoners contained. The exit was far from obvious, and may have been nonexistent. So what resulted was a constant criss-cross through hallways and over roads, always wondering whether a bed was in my future. I stopped into McDonald’s on the way back because I bought a 20-piece McNugget earlier in the day and still had leftovers. So I needed ranch dressing. I brought the dressing back with me to the hotel, popped the nuggets in the microwave, and then sat at the table alone with my nuggets and ranch wondering if I really wanted to do this. I decided there was no loop of the imagination I could go through to justify eating these lukewarm, leftover nuggets. So I threw them away and went to sleep. Vegas Baby.

Tomorrow comes the very worst hangover and a flight to Los Angeles. Stay tuned for a surprise guest appearance.

We had one short day to take in as much of San Francisco as possible. But before that happened we needed to drop our bags off with the concierge, return the RV, and take the BART system into the city. The guy who analyzed the RV when we returned it didnt notice the bent generator pipe, courtesy of Brickface. Nor did he notice the scratched-up hub cap, courtesy of yours truly. So we rejoiced in splendor as we rid ourselves of the awful, yet special RV and rolled into San Francisco.

We got into the city around noon and had to leave around 4:30 to catch our flight to vegas. Geoffrey knew of this place, Mama’s, that supposedly had the best brunch in town. Lucky for us, it was only 1.2 miles away. So Bobby took an uber there and the rest of us strolled. The wait for a table was only an hour and then the ordering and consumption of food was another quick hour. So when Mama’s was all said and done, it was 3 o’ clock and we had a cool 90 minutes to take in San Francisco. I’ve always heard San Fran has about 30-minutes-worth of sightseeing so I knew we would be fine. Our end goal was to check out Ghirardelli Square and see the curvy Lombard Street along the way.

Whoever it was that planned and built a major metropolis on the most mountainous terrain imaginable is a total dick. Every street has a 40% incline and it was truly Bobby’s worst nightmare. I heard that when someone goes into the San Francisco hospital with a fractured ankle, they shoot you in the face. Because you have a much better chance of making it all the way up to heaven then up Lombard Street with crutches. The walk became so grueling that I traded my backpack for a Bobby and piggybacked him through the tougher streets of the city.

I was very sweaty. We made it to Ghirardelli Square and I treated myself to a water because I wanted to live a few more hours. The square is right by the Bay so we took the stereotypical Golden Gate pic of course:

Our 90 minutes were almost up so naturally Brickface hustled to Fisherman’s Wharf and inserted his face into a bread bowl of clam chowder while we scrambled to find an uber to take us to the airport.

We had to get picked up in two separate ubers. When ZZTop and I started talking to the uber driver, he mentioned that the absolute worst day for traffic in San Francisco during any given week is Thursday. And that the worst time of day on any given day is 5 o’clock. So our 5 o’ clock uber on Thursday came out to just under $100. At least we made it to the plane and were Vegas-ready.

Grandpa Bob needed a wheelchair at the airport:

So here’s the deal: We had tickets to a Dillon Francis pool party at the Wynn. Our friend Jiten included us on his table but he wasn’t sure how much he would be able to help with our admission. We needed to be at the club, drunk, and in bathing suits before 11 at the very latest. The issue was that our flight was set to land at 9:22 so every second counted.

9:23 -> Plane landed. I’m going to talk to United about the delay later.
9:34 -> Got off plane.
9:43 -> Retrieved bags from our baggage claim that was situated in another terminal that could be accessed via tram.
9:45 -> Jumped into cab
10:01 -> Arrived at the Signature at the MGM Grand
10:01 -> Grabbed front desk lady by shoulders and asked where I might find the nearest venue that would sell me a bottle of liquor
10:01 -> Began 0.2 mile run to gift shop
10:02 -> Gift shop closed
10:03 -> Asked bartender at nearby bar if they would sell me an entire bottle. He responded by reaching for a bottle of 18-year MacCallan and pouring the slowest pour I’ve ever seen for the coked out grandfather next to me. And then smugly announced to me that they don’t sell liquor bottles.
10:10 -> Finished another 0.8 miles of frantically running through the halls to the MGM, found a gift shop, and purchased a fifth of Jagermeister for $56.
10:10 -> Took a breath.
10:10 -> Repeated 1.0 mile run back to the hotel room, but this time chugging Jaeger while doing so
10:18 -> Burp-vomited in elevator
10:19 -> Made it into hotel room. Removed clothes and put on appropriate swimswear. Drank Jager.
10:27 -> Jumped into cab with Roach, Brickface, and ZZTop.
10:45 -> Arrived at the Wynn. Completed the consumption of the fifth of Jager.
10:46 -> Burp-vomited.
10:59 -> Arrived in line at the Encore beach club. Feeling buzzed, feeling accomplished.

For those of you who don’t know Jiten, he takes friendship very seriously and I love him for it. If you ask him to kill a baby, he’s the kind of guy who will do it in a heartbeat, just because you asked. He doesn’t care that the mom really loves that baby, or that its super cute, or that it may grown up to be the next L. Ron Hubbard. All he cares about is that you want that baby dead and he’ll do anything for a friend.

So when we got in the general admission line, he met us with great swiftness and put us in the line for people with cabanas. Somehow our new, privileged line moved slower than the original line. But whatever. Everyone saw that we had a cabana, wanted to be us, and knew they would have to settle for being poor for the rest of their lives.

The pool party was stupid. I don’t mean stupid in a bad way, I mean “stupid” in the sense that it is absolutely ridiculous that such a setting is allowed to exist on our planet. There were three distinct pools, heated to what felt like your exact body temperature, with stripper poles in the middle of the main pool. There were plenty of duck floaties and plenty of long islands.

So I’m j-chilling there, enjoying the big ducks and the dope beats and the warm water. I notice a nice, respectful fella and gal having sex next to me. The guy had his back to me and the girl was facing me. I was so surprised that I didn’t know what to do but watch. I looked the girl right in the eyes and she stared back in mine and we had a wordless, meaningful conversation. Just stares. As she orgasmed, I wondered if this meant she was on my short list now. I also wondered what the lifeguards were doing, how far semen can travel in a chlorinated pool, and whether I should pay $20 for another long island. I said yes to the last inquiry.

Great night, great fun, great cabana. Word on the street is that Camo Dave got real drunk, lost a couple hundred dollars in craps, and then ate food off of his neighbor’s used room service tray. We headed back to the hotel on the earlier side because we had a big day planned tomorrow. The cab driver sang to himself the entire way back. He must have charged extra for his performance because the cab fare was ludicrous. I snuggled into my majestic bed situated in our 1500-square-foot penthouse suite and did not miss the RV one bit. Maybe I will one day, but not this day. Tomorrow is a big one: Drai’s beach party by day, Porter Robinson show by night. We’ll see what happens.

Ah, our last full day with the RV. We had a late start on the day, scrambling to find a decent RV park near San Fran. There were no good options so we started looking for Walmarts, yet again. We found one in Oakland where we could relax on our last night, what could go wrong? Nothing.

The plan was to return the RV the following morning, so we needed to fully clean the vehicle and pack our things in the middle of the Oakland Walmart parking lot. As we scrubbed and dusted, Roach peered out the window at our Walmart brethren with horror. Here’s the thing about Oakland, and the Oakland walmart in particular: its scary as fuck. Zach and I brought a big duffel bag of trash to a nearby dumpster, and on the way back, I was approached via bicycle by an incredibly shady, emaciated man with jaundiced eyes .

He explained that he had just left prison after six years and wanted to know how much cash I had. When I explained that we had leftover food to share, he asked for cash again. At which point I left the conversation, walking backwards so he didn’t stab me. The man could then be seen biking by the RV every 20 minutes or so, like clockwork. Gotta love Oakland.

We called an Uber to take us to the BART station which would then take us into the city. Upon pickup, our driver pleaded that we don’t sleep in that Walmart tonight. He explained that it was no place for six nice, young men. When I assured the driver that Brickface is plenty strong enough to protect us, he assured us that the bad guys have bigger guns. Also while this was happening, Roach was explaining to the driver where we parked our RV, when we would return from the city, which valuable possessions existed and where to find them, and then essentially handed him the keys. Its been decided: we’re not sleeping in Oakland tonight. We want to survive until we make it to Vegas. Only then can we die.

We grabbed oysters and other seafood in the city while we planned our slumber situation. 2-star TravelLodge that essentially pays you to sleep on their cum-stained sheets and blankets and dry off with their cum-stained towels? I’m down. So was everyone else. We couldn’t sightsee much since Bob only had one available leg so we decided to save the touristy stuff for later.

The RV was still parked at the Oakland Walmart when we returned, with hardly any shattered windows. We drove it over to the hotel with plans to unload our stuff and go out on the town. What ended up happening instead is that we all stayed in, ordered pizza, and watched Geoffrey get drunk by himself and translate the Chinese television channel to us.

One of the Chinese soap operas had a royal character who got excessively drunk and pulled random girls aside to invade their personal space while whispering in their ears. So we ended our time with the RV by finding Brickface’s doppelganger.

We passed out early with the plan to return the RV in the morning, frolic around San Francisco, and then fly to Vegas for a Dillon Francis pool party. I know the whole saying about what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. But that rule doesn’t apply to smelliots.

As we awoke outside the Walmart, we started to fully understand that we had just slept in an RV in a Walmart parking lot. The only thing to do now was check out the great deals, so Roach and I ventured inside. Waking up without a shower and wearing last night’s clothes, I shuffled through the aisles of Walmart and finally began to internalize the great power of my newly earned college degree. All the preppy folk of Napa looked upon me with profound respect and I felt it.

We bought some supplies real quick and then headed to the town of Calistoga. A quaint town nestled in the heart of Napa Valley, it is home to an RV park with much-needed showers and also the Castello di Amorosa winery. Nas has had his eye on this particular winery for a long time. Upon our arrival, we came to understand why. It was no cabana, but instead a winery styled according to a 13th century castle, endowed with all the amenities that one would expect in a castle of that time period. Oh yeah, this place had great halls, torture chambers, chickens, a moat, the works. Wine stuff too i guess.

Nas couldn’t join us for the last picture because 13th-century-style castles aren’t particularly handicap-friendly. After touring the grounds a bit, we ventured to the tasting room to try out a few of the vineyard’s wines. At the square bar centered within the tasting room, a very Italian man ushered ZZtop, Nas, and me over to his area. I don’t mean this to speak toward the Italian people or those of Italian heritage, but the man looked like the one sneaky rodent that you can always pick out in a Disney movie. He oozed a creepy slyness and each wine he poured for us had a hint of laced arsenic. Looking past the arsenic, the wines were incredible. After we finished tasting, the Italian stared into my eyes, gave me a form to fill out, and asked me if I wanted to purchase a bottle of wine. But his question was more of an imminent fact than a question. So when I woke up from my drug-induced trance 8 minutes later, I was holding a bottle of Pinot Noir and driving the RV back to our campground.

The rest of our day was pure chill. Finally we had good weather to enjoy and we did just that.

All of us had not shaved our faces at all since Chicago because someone had the brilliant notion to drink wine in Napa with mustaches. So my first task after having returned from drinking wine in Napa was to remove the rug from my face.

Check out ZZTop’s baller ‘stache. I got rid of the mutton chops but it was a nice thought.

We spent the rest of the day throwing frisbees, enjoying cigars, and watching  Brickface beat Roach in chess. Actually, I should elaborate on the chess game.

Roach has spent the last few months, and this road trip in particular, voraciously reading chess books. Cause he’s chill like that. He’s become a passionate player, respects the integrity of the game, and most importantly loves to win. So when Brickface asked for a game, Roach saw his opportunity for an easy slaughter. After losing the first game in four moves, Geoffrey leaned over to me and asked me how to move the king.

Everyone counted him out for the rematch game, including myself. He spent roughly 10 minutes before making each move, so what resulted was a 2-and-a-half hour match of epic proportions. Each time Geoffrey was stumped, I would tell him that there was a good move to make, and he would respond by taking 15 minutes to find the exact move I was thinking of. As the match neared its grand conclusion, Roach angrily tossed aside the chess board knowing he lost to an amateur named Brickface who hasn’t seen a chess piece in 6 years. It may seem like an inconsequential board game, but if you know these guys well, you would understand why watching this board game has been the absolute highlight of my road trip.

Roach has sworn off chess. Tomorrow is our last full day with the RV. We’ll spend it in the great city of San Francisco, probably doing hipster things that you haven’t heard of.

We awoke in Lake Tahoe with plans to head to Yosemite. Where we were going to sleep at night was unclear. Most of the Yosemite campgrounds have been fully booked for months, but some of them  function on a first-come, first-serve basis, so we figured we would just go and try our luck.

Halfway through our drive, we split up and grabbed some quick food. Brickface has a serious caffeine addiction, so he quickly found the nearest Starbucks. As he waited, a mustachioed man wearing a baseball cap approached him. He appeared to be in his late sixties, and my estimate was verified when he opened his mouth.

“Say young man, I don’t mean to be offensive but are you part Caucasian?”

Geoffrey replied he wasn’t, which surprised the old feller.

“Really? I don’t mean to be offensive but you’re a bit tall to be an Oriental. Just the other day I saw two Orientals, a man who was 6′ 3″ and a woman who was 5′ 11″. I’m only 5’9″! Isn’t it unusual for Orientals to be so tall?”

Brickface stared blankly, explained that it must have been the steroids, grabbed his coffee, and quickly ran away.

4 hours of driving and a $30 entrance fee later, I saw a bunch of rocks at Yosemite. Check out how big this rock is:

That’s the money rock. We parked by this boulder to hike a nearby trail that led to a dope waterfall. You may not know this about Nasty Nas, but he really loves waterfalls. Even more than that, he loves climbing rocks. So when he caught sight of a shmorgishborg of boulders leading up to a grand waterfall, he grabbed Roach and raced away with the speed of a most joyful Italian. ZZTop and I crawled at our own pace and Death gave me a wink a few times. I told Death to fuck off though and we eventually found ourselves directly under the fall.

Bobby was a happy camper. He sped back down the boulders with great energy and rejoined the public on the beaten path. He and Roach saw a creek that would make for a good Instagram picture. That’s when disaster struck. Bobby’s left foot came down with an audible crack on a dastardly rock. So Roach called me and ZZTop over for assistance.

I gave Bobby a piggyback ride down the trail back to the RV. I said it was so he wouldn’t have to put weight on his leg, but it was mostly because its the closest Nas will come to giving me a cuddle. We brought Bob-guy to the nearby Yosemite Medical station. While he figured out his health insurance stuff, Zach and I perused the waiting room material and found the greatest fun this road trip has yet to offer.

That’s right, childrens’ books jam-packed with games and those side-by-side pictures where you have to point out the similarities and differences. The mice were creepy as hell but still entertaining.

Also this. This frog was completely unimpressed by the Caterpillar’s jump. The premise of this epic story is that animals jump over smaller animals, which are then superceded by bigger animals, all the way up to the boss kangaroo. But then then the plot twist occurs when a butterfly flies over the kangaroo and he’s like, “Yo homie kangaroo, I used to be a caterpillar that couldn’t jump at all and now I’m a dope ass butterfly that can outjump even you. So suck my dick.” The moral of the story is clear. If you have no skills, you’ll turn into a butterfly. The best part was that there was a board game included with the story.

The rules were simple: flip a penny and if you got heads, move ahead one space. If you flipped a tails, move ahead two spaces, and if you land on an animal, you need to jump up. So Zach and I made custom game pieces by tearing off parts of a nearby brochure on the dangers of third-hand smoking, and then we passionately raced in the middle of that waiting room. To say it was a close match is an understatement: Zach beat me by a hair. But my jumps were remarkably more impressive. Anyway, we were making too much noise and effectively got kicked out of the medical station and escaped back to the RV.

I was still sweaty from piggybacking Nas so I removed my shirt. Which reminded me that my body required attention in the midst of In N’ Out consistently going in n’ out of my body, So I grabbed the dumbbell and did some reps while the crew sans Bobby played the Name Game. At that very moment, a park ranger walked by the RV and saw the ridiculous events unfolding within. He asked one of us to come outside to ensure that one of us was in fact okay to drive. Once i explained the universal need to get yoked, he understood and allowed us to carry on.

Bobby emerged alright, he was given a splint, crutches, and an overall positive prognosis that he’d be relatively fine in a week. By this time, the sunset was close on our heels and we still had no idea where we were sleeping tonight. We had great dreams of checking out the Redwoods and Sequoias but the trip would have added 3 hours of driving time and wouldn’t have gotten us any closer to a place of shelter. So our plan became to leave the park after that one fateful waterfall hike and head to the unknown town of Modesto, CA. Apparently there was an In N’ Out there and we figured RV parks would exist nearby.

By the time we got to In N’ Out, it was too late to check-in to any neighboring RV parks, so we drove through the night to sleep outside a Walmart in Napa. I’m not sure what was most comforting: the pillow under my sleepy head, the Valley full of wine just a few miles away, or the lurkers that frequent Walmart parking lots past midnight. I felt safe knowing they could keep an eye on our RV while we slumbered. Wine would pour in the morning.

So hungover. Too much wine, too many long islands. The rest of the group shared a similar sentiment. We groggily awoke feeling as great as anyone could feel after emptying our wallets just to shmooze with Lake Tahoe locals. I went through the hangover routine: Shower, cry, shower again, wonder why you can’t just have fun without the help of alcohol, then finally swear you won’t have alcohol ever again. Next step was to eat. We got a fire going and decidedly ate 18 hot dogs and 2 pounds of bacon.

The weather was destined to be very poor for the day, and also the following days in Yosemite. Such a destiny came true as sleet began to fall down on our poor, hungover bodies. Everyone decided to cozy up in the RV as Tahoe gave us its gloomy “fuck you”. Repeatedly beat Roach in chess. Read a book. Went to sleep. Everyone went to sleep. It was a much needed rest day.

We went out for dinner since we were out of food and snapped a quick pic of Tahoe:

I have to believe that the six jet skis in a row was no coincidence. I think God wanted us to take them and ride off into the sunset. But I would have been too nauseous so we didn’t.

Nas and I had such a great time playing poker last night that we returned to the casino for another chance at glory. We recruited Roach to come play with us as well, while ZZTop played blackjack, and Brickface and Camo Dave tried their luck at craps.

I was placed at one table, while Roach and Nas were placed at another. The guy to my left was an incredibly drunk, bald 75-year-old who continually asked the table to ask him to leave. He whispered into my ear “Welcome to Hell” and I was starting to think he was on to something. The table spent 45 minutes undergoing an in-depth analysis and contrast of a local fried chicken joint and some other taco place. In the meantime, I bled money until I was dealt an Ace-King, was pushed all-in, and lost the rest of my hundred. Bobby won 112 and Roach made some money to break even for the trip. Gambling sucks.

We retreated to the campground with heavy hearts, wondering why we would ever gamble in the first place. Except for Nas and Roach who bounced with glee. I hate glee.

We passed out at 11:30, like bosses. The plan is to head to Yosemite in the morning: I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a bear attack. With our rest day out of the way, expect livelier days to come.

After slumbering in the RV resort utopia, we awoke with only one mission for the day: arrive in Lake Tahoe with sufficient time to rage. We made it on the road at 10 with great expectations for what was to come.

About 3 hours into the drive, we stopped in the great city of Elko, Nevada. If you haven’t heard of it, you’re missing out. With a population of 20,000 its the largest city in central Nevada. Its home to dozens of casinos and we made it our mission to stop into one of these party havens for lunch. My favorite thing about Elko casinos is that if you’re jonesing for a cigarette, or even a pack of cigarettes, there’s no need to purchase one at the local gas station. All you gotta do is walk into an Elko casino, take a subtle breath next to the tatooed 45-year-old woman with gray hair playing the penny slots, and you’re immediately buzzing. Naturally, I was entranced by the aroma of the casino. The food was pretty solid actually, Elko can make a mean club sandwich.

After eating, we excitedly rushed over to the slot machines. I put in a dollar and as I pushed the 0.01 button over and over again, watching my available credits go from 100 to 99 to 98 and so on, I finally understood why gambling is so addictive. There’s just something about hemorrhaging money and breathing in recycled cigarette smoke from a cougar named Marge that really gets the blood flowing. I highly recommend Elko for your next family vacation. Speaking of family values, on our way out of Elko we passed by 2 of the 24 legal brothels in America.

Asian girls for free. What a deal. I found the brothels to be an interesting spectacle, a surviving relic of the world’s oldest profession. I should note that I did not partake in their business. I think sex is far too magical to be exchanged for money. I’m a believer that sex should only exist in the realm of bolstering intimacy between two loving souls. I also believe that women are awesome. God clearly made Adam, realized he could do better, and then got to work on Eve. Nicely done, God.

Anyways, we got back on the road toward Tahoe. Dave tied Bobby’s shoes together.

About an hour outside our destination, we arrived at our true destination: In N’ Out. For those who aren’t familiar, In N’ Out is a primarily west coast burger joint. Each meal comes with a free food-gasm. The burgers and fries are cheap, incredibly covered in cheese, and proven to strengthen your soul. Don’t even get me started on the milkshakes. They make cows seem worthy of worship, I’ll leave it at that.

With only an hour to go to Tahoe, we reboarded the RV and I took the wheel. Stocked up on liquor, gas, and a thirst for revelry. We sped the last 60 miles, putting down drinks and blasting “Talking Body” as we arrived at the campground. I had a Bota Box I still hadn’t touched so I made as large a dent as possible before going out. We had our sights set on the nightclub at Harrah Casino & Resort.

Lost $45 in blackjack right when we got there. Time to go buy expensive drinks to help me forget about the money I’m losing. The median age of fellas and gals at this club was right around 30, but that didn’t stop Brickface from hitting on all the hottest honies in the joint. He may not have had the success he hoped for, but he showed a lot of heart. After literally chugging two long islands, I recruited Nasty Nas to hunt for some poker. Found it at a neighboring casino. We both put down $100 a piece and sat at a table with six sixty year-olds who all shared some resemblance to John Goodman. Nas quadrupled his money within the first few hands while I slowly dwindled. After an hour or so I went all-in, came out ahead, and we ran away from the table as fast as possible.

Ran right back to the club where Roach had the saddest face on you could ever imagine. He had lost a good deal of money playing craps and none of the other kids in the club would play with him. Plus he was tired. So Dave sang him a lullaby, ZZTop put a pillow under his cute Roach head, and we returned to the RV for a good night’s rest. On the agenda for tomorrow: absolutely nothing.

Originally our plan was to spend a third night in Yellowstone and drive straight to Lake Tahoe early the next morning. That’s a 12-and-a-half hour drive, without stops. As fun as that drive sounds, we decided that we had seen enough of the stones in Yellowstone and started venturing southwest to at least make a dent in this mammoth of a drive. We left Yellowstone with heavy hearts since we never managed to spot, attack, and feast on a Grizzly bear. I’m still keeping my fingers crossed for our time in Yosemite.

Just south of Yellowstone is another park called Teton National Park. Its known for its ridiculously majestic mountain range; I think its name was actually derived from the mountains’ resemblance to pointy boobs, actually. The main reason we stopped here in particular was that Camo Dave, Nasty Nas, Roach, and Brickface wanted to get some fishing time in. ZZTop and I know practically nothing about the craft of fishing so we kept busy while the rest of the gang stood shoreside. How did we keep busy? Well I have failed to mention this so far, but before we all embarked on this trip, we invested in a 40-pound dumbbell to be delivered to Vanderbilt. So we can remain super yoked obviously. Zach and I took it down to the shore with us and I’m sure we looked absolutely ridiculous. While Brickface cast his rod in the water over and over again, repeatedly coming back fish-less, Zach and I were going HAM with the dumbell, hitting all the important muscle groups. Throngs of people across the stream watched us wondering what in the world was going on. Getting jacked as hell next to a stream, that’s what.

Anyway, the fishing conditions were very poor, apparently. So we needed to drive elsewhere along the Snake River for seafood. Before that trek though, we stopped into the Teton National Park restaurant. It was the first time we had “eaten out” since the RV trip began and I wanted to cry. Not just because it was good. It was crazy good. The fish & chips and the hummus were all so on-point. The reason I was welling up with tears is because, literally, I had not eaten anything besides low-grade burgers, hot dogs, and turkey sandwiches in several days. I forgot what other food tasted like and sometimes wondered if it really existed out there. After food we snapped a quick pic and were on our way:

The fishing spot further down Wyoming was also a dud. Something about water moving too quickly I think. Zach and I passed out in the RV while the rest of the gang toiled away fruitlessly in the rain. We eventually gave up on earning our own fish that day and started focusing on where we were going to sleep. We found a fancy, shmancy RV resort called “Village of Trees” situated just outside of Declo, Idaho. We looked it up and Declo actually means “Bumfuck” in German.

Along our way there we had an important stop to make, we just didn’t know it. Have you guys ever become peeved that your ice cream scoops are just too spherical? Is it too much to ask for just a little asymmetry when I’m eating my dairy sweets? For this random Idahoan gas station, it wasn’t too much to ask:

Finally. An opportunity to quickly and efficiently calculate the volume of my ice cream without factoring in pi. As delicious and ground-breaking as it appeared, I decided to forego it and got some 32-oz cans of Miller Lite instead cause I love getting drunk around only guys. We attempted to do just that as we arrived in Declo.

Let me tell you about this place “Village of Trees”, its freaking incredible. It touts itself as an RV “resort” and it really deserves that title. I felt as pampered as you possibly could be in an RV park. Upon our arrival, they set us up with our very own patch of grass, equipped with our personal supply of water and electrical power. Pretty standard stuff, but this is where things get hardcore. Before the campground workers departed, they left us with a menu with which we could order food by phone with free delivery. Essentially dope room service, but for an RV. So we ordered 2 large pizzas, and while we waited the fishing gang went to a nearby lake to try their luck for a third time. The lake turned out to have no water in it though so the amateurs had a surprisingly tough time catching fish. When they came back as failures, the pizza arrived at our door soon after. I have had my fair share of RV park pizza, as much as the next guy, but this was definitely the best I’ve ever had. A lotta cheese, a lotta love. I went to sleep on the kitchen set with pizza in my stomach, Miller lite in my liver, love in my heart, and dreams of my journey to ragin’ Lake Tahoe the next day.

Ah, the outdoors.  A wonderful place where the air is clean, the sun is bright, and there’s really not that much to do. Somehow we managed to fill our day just looking at stuff. Roach has been bothering us for a day now to go see the mud volcano with him and we obliged. The mud volcano is essentially an area that boasts a large collection of boiling hot springs that emits crazy amounts of sulfur. For humans, sulfur is a grotesque smell that is often associated with rotting eggs or the general decay of life. With this in mind, I now understood why Roach was so eager to sightsee here. You see, very few things kill cockroaches, not even nuclear warfare. So when a Roach smells sulfur, he doesn’t associate it with decay in a negative sense. He associates it with the decay of other living organisms, while his own species remains intact, becoming stronger and more powerful by comparison. So while the five of us walked past the majestic volcano with our shirts covering our noses, Roach would stroll by each spring with a confident gait, pause, flare his nostrils, and dream of his specie’s imminent revolution. Wow Roach, wow.

Anyway, we then made our way to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone. The walk down to the viewing point was an impressively steep hike, including a succession of approximately 350 steps. Signs were placed preceding the hike, warning away people who had heart conditions, back problems, and so on. We failed to consider the kind of toll such a walk would place on “Brickface Geoffrey”, who had eaten upwards of a dozen pop-tarts over the last couple days. Usually Geoffrey is the epitome of fitness. People tend to cheer and play “Eye of the Tiger” whenever he walks by or bursts up stairs. But those S’mores pop-tarts changed everything. Lucky for Brickface, the park placed benches along the staircase every so often for weary travelers. Usually grandmothers in their 80’s named Fanny or Bridget. But there sat Geoffrey, periodically, until he rejoined us at the top of the trail. The view was worth the effort though.

Check out Roach thinking about roach stuff:

What a long way you have come. To think that only four years ago you were admitted to Vanderbilt University via Affirmative Action in an effort to educate more of America’s insects and now you’re atop one of the greatest canyons in the world. I’m proud, and also done with the Roach jokes for the time being.

After making a quick lunch, we headed to the lower basin where we could feast our eyes on some more Sulfur-emitting geysers. Yay. I’m not saying they aren’t cool. They really are very interesting, colorful ecological systems.

Its just that when you see one big, boiling pool of turbulent water that smells like rotten eggs, you may as well have seen them all. With one exception. Her name is Old Faithful and she is a real pretty geyser. What makes her special isn’t the intense power with which she shoots water out of her hole. And it is intense. It’s the crazy accuracy with which we can predict when the geyser will erupt. On average she goes off every 63 minutes. The exact time interval depends on the duration of the previous eruption, usually lasting between 1 and 5 minutes. But you know what, dependency like this ought to be celebrated in our chaotic world. Cause there are times when I tell my father that my plane is landing at 3:50 and he arrives at the airport at 5 cause he was watching a pre-recorded taping of WWE and needed to finish it first. Or my teacher tells me she will have our papers graded by Friday but instead returns them ten days late cause she has tenure and doesn’t give a fuck. But if a hole in the middle of Wyoming can deliver me a powerful spurt of water at the promised time, over and over again until the supervolcano of Yellowstone explodes, I find that to be a pretty comforting idea worthy of recognition. So we went to see it.

It erupted exactly when we expected:

Very cool, thanks water. With that, we headed back to the campground to set up camp for the night. As we made the 90-minute trek back and watched the mountains roll by, I got the feeling that love was in the air. I couldn’t explain where the sensation came from, but it was validated near the end of our journey home. A cute baby bison crossed the street ahead of us with dozens of bison following behind it or just loitering in the area. We parked the RV for a moment as they crossed the road. Partly out of respect for the beauty of God’s creatures and partly so they wouldn’t form a bison coalition to attack and kill us. As the parade made its way across the street, a Romeo bison set his sights on a Juliet bison that he has been courting for a while. They have been dating for around four years up until this point and they just made the decision to finally move into the same patch of grass together. But Romeo bison didn’t think this large life decision was enough to really show the world and his bison homies just how much he cared about Juliet bison. So as they crossed the street, he nudged her head with his, circled behind her, placed his front legs on her back, aligned himself properly, and stuck it in for all the world to see. It was a quick session but you could feel the love these two dirty animals shared. The bisons clapped and the humans took pictures as their love was consummated.

Yellowstone is weird.

We made it to the campground eventually and microwaved 102 chicken nuggets. Nasty Nas got really drunk on Busch Light and his Bota Box. We all talked into the night, reminiscing about old college memories. Like that one time Zach tried to shave his gooch but cut it open instead. Good times. We dozed off with plans to head to Teton National Park in the morning and to sleep in Idaho. Stay Tuned.

P.S.

The European girls never met up with us. The only explanation is that they figured we were too popular. They probably thought we had too many friends in Yellowstone already and wouldn’t make time for them. We didn’t want to hang out with them anyway…

One other thing, there is a huge part of this road trip that I have failed to cover but deserves recognition. That being the song “Talking Body” by Tove Lo. We play it every second of every day, and if you’re not listening to it right now, you’re making a mistake.