Note: I realize that the title of this post is probably offensive. In fact, "God's Poo" are probably two words that should never be seen paling around. I can only assure you that all will be explained (if you have the patience to read everything that follows) and that I trust even the most devoutly religious among you will not take offense. Well, not much offense anyway.
A while back you might recall that the Wife and I purchased tickets to see Elton John and Billy Joel together in concert. I lurked online waiting for the exact second the tickets went on sale and snagged floor seats, twenty-two rows back. They were not cheap.
We spent the last two months looking forward to the date, which was last night. We left the house three and a half hours before the show was to start because we 1. wanted to stop and eat a nice dinner on the way and 2. despise those people who show up late for pretty much anything. My Garmin nuvi GPS device (henceforth dubbed "utter piece of rotten turd fungus") said the trip would take us ninety minutes.
The first forty-five minutes of our date went extremely well. No construction, (which is a miracle in Michigan and I mean this quite literally) no car accidents, no wait at the restaurant (Outback, if you must know), and we were back on the road still right on schedule.
And then everything went to hell.
It started with our first taste of construction which closed the ramp I intended to use. No biggie, I took the next exit. At this point there was one of those signs that said how many minutes to the next interstate. It said something like 18 so I figured I'd follow the utter piece of rotten turd fungus's advice and wind my way through Detroit suburbia instead. After all, the satellites had a better perspective, right? And it had to be better than dealing with construction.
Here's the thing about the utter piece of rotten turd fungus. It apparently does not factor in things like stop lights, traffic, speed limits, or pretty much any other variable having to do with travel time. Long story short, we spent thirty minutes wiggling our way through swanky neighborhoods and sitting at red lights. And when it was all said and done, we ended up back on the interstate that had been 18 minutes away.
But we were okay. The utter piece of rotten turd fungus said we'd get there with thirty minutes to spare. No troubles. Until we hit the largest traffic jam in recorded history. (I'm assuming someone records these things.) Every single car in the state of Michigan was on I-75. The Wife and I realized our error (or rather, the utter piece of rotten turd fungus's error) immediately. See, in Michigan, we have this thing called "going up north." Basically, everyone but me owns property in the northern part of the state and whenever there's a holiday that creates an extended weekend, these people all hop in their Ford F950s and celebrate by clogging the interstates.
We were ten miles from the venue and I could have walked faster than the Murphmobile was moving. The Wife and I watched, sick to our stomachs, as minute after minute rolled by. The estimated arrival time, which was at one time 6:56 slowly became 7:15, then 7:16, then 7:17, all the way to 8:00, a half-hour after the concert was to start. Warily (and irately) we inched along.
Anyway, we finally got to the parking lot a half-hour late only to find that it was unquestionably full. No spaces anywhere. (Well, I take that back. There were lots of spaces for "VIPs." The inventor of my utter piece of rotten turd fungus was likely one of them.) By this point I was done swearing. When God decides it's your turn to get pooped on there's really no point in doing anything other than closing your mouth. And maybe crying. I let The Wife out of the car because there was no point in both of us missing the concert, and I continued my search for the elusive parking space. I finally resorted to driving over a curb and parking on a grassy knoll.
I ran to the arena and found my way to the floor seating. Of course, the concert was well underway and I couldn't see a damn thing. The rows were labeled with chalk scrawled on the concrete floor and I caught a glimpse of a number and so proceeded to count up to 22. Alas, the rows ended at 20. Me=confused. I found an usher and she was about as much help as the utter piece of rotten turd fungus. "Go up two rows," she said. Or something. It was loud in there.
I looked for the Wife. I did not see her.
"You need to go up there!" usher lady screeched. I started walking, but apparently I wasn't moving fast enough. "No! Up there!" She pointed.
"Look," I said. "You keep saying that but I don't know where to go!" Finally, she walked me to my seat and I actually felt grateful that the lady had done the very thing she was paid to do.
So I get to my row and I see her! I see The Wife! I just need to squeeze past a few people and my harrowing adventure will finally be over. The first person is in a wheelchair, but I can get past her. I turn sideways and start to slide down the row when I step on something that feels entirely too soft to be somebody's foot. I look down and there's a flipping dog lying on the floor. The lady in the wheelchair is blind and I just stepped on her seeing-eye dog. There's another dude there who's job must be to watch over the dog, but he's like seven foot tall and his knees actually touch the seat in front of him. And now that I've stepped on the dog, (who I must say was very understanding about the whole thing. Given how the night had gone it's a wonder the thing didn't take a bite out of my ankle.) the dude is not moving. He's not even looking at me. There's no way I'm getting down that aisle. So I find a couple of empty seats two rows behind The Wife.
The way this story deserves to end is I get back to my car after the concert and find it has slipped down the embankment and has been mercilessly battered by furious drivers.
Or as I'm climbing over the chairs in front of me to finally get to The Wife, I trip and land in the lap of a Hell's Angel.
How it really ends is I did climb over those seats and I did sit next to The Wife and I did really enjoy the concert. It was awesome. What I saw of it anyway. And when I got back to the car, there it sat safe and sound.
And so the moral of the story is this: Even God eventually runs out of poo. (And Chevy Impalas have very good parking brakes.)