America, Fuck Yea: A Tale of Mania and Misconduct across the Greatest Country in America

Forward

Alright ladies and gentlemen, buckle your seatbelts. We're about to go on a journey to de-mystify the far reaches of this great land of ours. At 5:30 yesterday morning, with naught but a duffle bag and a backpack, I left my cozy apartment in Somerville to board a Virgin America flight to the savage, untamed land of Los Angeles. Not for gold, nor celebrity-endorsed Botox specialists, but for adventure. For the next two weeks this will be a travel blog chronicling two woefully underprepared suckers as they brave the American southland.

My partner in crime throughout this debacle is Lauren, the comely young lass you see below.

Mr. Froggy is our resident survival expert. We'll be drinking our own pee in no time.

Poor Lauren has been a bit out of sorts lately, so we're getting her out of this cesspool of fake tans and poorly-written screenplays and back to the gleaming cesspool of misogynistic "yah-dudes" and brown-colored snow that we like to call Boston. And we're doing it in this:

That's a speed dent. It makes the car go faster.

We haven't even started yet and already a snag: because of the ducktail spoiler, we had to jury-rig the luggage rack with bungee cords.

So stay tuned, because on Tuesday morning Lauren and I will begin piloting our comically undersized chariot East toward the rising sun. I hope you'll join us for the ride.