Oklahoma Joes and KU Hoes

We drove all night, barely surviving the black ice ridden West Virginia hell. Considering Ben's propensity to steer with his knees while texting with both hands, it was a miracle.

Not until we saw the St. Louis arch looming ahead did we stop for breakfast. After taking a few hours in St. Louis to eat and relax, we were off. We had driven through six states and gone a little over 800 miles in about 12 hours. Our sights were now set on Kansas City, the apparent BBQ capital of the world. I slept the whole way and awoke as we jolted to a stop. What looked like a standard, decrepit gas station apparently doubled as Oklahoma Joe's, the best bbq joint in the state. Rated number thirteen on Anthony Bourdain's top 13 places to eat before you die, the 45 minute wait was worth it. Nate is a particularly big rib enthusiast and devoured an entire rack, describing how he felt afterwards in his typical succinct fashion; "I feel like I have a pregnant pig fetus in my uterus right now."

The next stop was Lawrence, 45 minutes further down the road, where Kansas University is and where we planned for a night of heavy drinking. After booking a cheap hotel, our first stop was the liquor store where without a word, we went straight for the bourbon. It was 5 o'clock and we were all beat from just having gotten short bursts of shitty, neck raping car sleep. So I got a bucket of ice and we sipped our respective pints away in a quiet stupor. As our exhaustion began to subside, it was replaced by the glorious and powerful bourbon buzz. We knew it had taken hold after an irrational, full volume 15 minute screaming argument over Something I don't even know. We reconciled just as a jaunty bluegrass tune began to play, transforming any residual tension into a bourbon induced whooping and foot stomping frenzy. We stomped around a while till we woke Nate up, who had taken the brunt of the early morning drive. Ben called a cab and since the town was fairly dead, we told the driver to just take us to whichever bar was busiest. He dropped us at a pretty standard college bar called Louise's. We made our way in and bought a round, all while Ben yelled irrationally at my lack of cash. I ignored him and he eventually sauntered off. Except for a glimpse, we wouldn't see him the rest of the night.

As we sat judging the crowd, a random guy staggered over to our table rambling about Vegas, where we said we were headed. Excited by this knowledge and with convenient drunken enthusiasm, he ushered over some girls and bought us all Vegas Bombs. After which he stood swaying for a moment and eventually stumbled off, leaving the three girls with us. We were riding that bourbon fueled confidence high as we talked with the girls and bought a few more rounds. Then one of us let a rape joke slip out a little too casually, which was not received well. We reeled and made last ditch efforts as they made excuses and left, one after the other. Apparently girls aren't too receptive to rape humor, especially coming from two strangers in the furthest depths of a maniacal whiskey binge. Alas, we left. I struck up a conversation with a kid who helped me get my favorite green hangover medicine, the night's sole victory. Then we began a self imposed, hellishly cold, two hour death march back to the hotel, loudly bemoaning our nights failures and riling ourselves into an anti Kansas rage.

Today we are hauling ass out of this flat garbage state and beelining for Colorado, the Motherland.