Tour Diary 8

Guess what?

I'm happy.

As a clam.

I just had to get out of New York,
honestly.

And thank god.

I flew down,
in my car,
to South Carolina.

It's crazy down here,
but not that crazy.

I played the Bush Song and everything.

And I'm staying with a gay, married couple.

Kinky.

They have an adorable little dog.
Some sort of mini pinscher chihuahua thing.

He's been licking my neck all night.
He can't quite reach my face.

I played a fun show
with awesome bands
and I've got some cash
in my pocket and some
beer in my belly.

I'm back where I belong,
out on the road,
playing shows,
meeting new people,
finding new adventures.

Instead of stuck in a
big, dirty city rehashing
days that have long since passed.

Love, man,
it's a bitch.

But music,
and rock and roll,
and bars and gay married
people with dogs,
and vegetarian restaurants
with cute counter girls,
and pretty red heads named Linda,
and funny mexican guys
who want to buy CDs,
and nerd rap bands
that sing about Dungeons
and Dragons,
and driving to South Carolina...

that is where it's fucking at.

Tomorrow I'm in Georgia,
I've never been there before, either.

What's up, South?

My name is Nice Peter,
and this is a song about George W Bush,
and if you don't like it,
you can lick that little dog's
balls on your way out.

And.................

South of the Border
is a rest stop that starts
advertising itself about
110 miles before it comes
up on the highway.

Billboards every other mile
create an image in your head
of a wondrous paradise,
where naked chicks pump
your gas as you browse through
aisle after aisle of interesting
and unique souvenirs.

It's a lie.

South of the Border
is a shitty combination
of Putt Putt, Speedway, and Taco Bell.

And they sell useless, ugly crap.

You pump your own gas,
and you pay a surly seventeen year old,
with braces.

It's a fucking rest stop,
and it's like every other rest stop.

Except it's bigger and dumber
and more expensive because
they have to budget for miles
and miles of false advertising.

Fuck you, South of the Border,
and fuck you, little dog,
stop licking my neck,
I'm trying to write here.

I'm sorry...
I didn't mean it,
you can lick my neck,
I'm almost done.

-p