I went to North Carolina and all I got was a sore ass.
Well, that's not true.
I got quite a bit more than a sore ass. That was just one of my souvenirs from North Carolina. I'm pretty sure I also got a collapsed lung.
See, my sisters thought it would be "fun" to ride bikes.
Here's my definition of fun. Fun is shoe shopping. Fun is a U2 concert. Fun is a marathon of the Real Housewives with a carton of Ho-Ho's by my side.
And don't get me wrong. I'm no slug.
I like bike riding.
In FLORIDA. Where the land is FLAT.
Here's a rundown of my biking partners:
My sister who is 12 years younger than me. 12. That's the difference between fresh and happy body organs and body organs that are beginning to fail.
My sister's friend who is also 12 years younger than me and a fitness freak.
My Hubby who can sit on the couch for 10 years and then just one day, jump up and run 20 miles without even needing to catch his breath. I really hate that about him.
My sister who runs marathons. For Fun. Because clearly, she's never downed a box of Ho-Ho's while watching twelve hours of Housewives.
Have I mentioned that North Carolina has "hills?"
God did not create those hills. Satan had a hand in that.
When I complained about how much I hated this f***king ride on Facebook, my old boyfriend Joe, the one who cycled 3,240 miles across the US in 41 days, suggested that perhaps I needed a tandem bike.
I said perhaps I needed a portable oxygen tank. Besides, none of those other bike riders would have wanted this albatross helping them pedal.
This is me after I almost died. I wasn't sure if I was going to live, so I snapped this picture for posterity's sake.
This was more my idea of fun in North Carolina.
A little of this.
And then off to the spa, for a massage.
Riding bikes, my ass. My sore ass.
I also had a great time surprising my bro on his asshole's birthday.
And even though there was fun to be had and satanic hills to be ridden, I was saving up my strength for the insanity to come.
The part of the weekend where two universes would collide, possibly causing a great cosmic explosion in the blogosphere.
You see, June Gardens of Bye Bye Pie is essentially the Lindsay Lohan of the Blog World.
And I am Paris Hilton.
And this weekend Lindsay/June and Paris/Joann came together, and the Umstead Hotel and the rest of Hill Hell, North Carolina will never be the same.
Lindsay/June was kind enough to travel approximately one million and four miles to meet me at my hotel for lunch.
I knew we were one and the same when, upon her entrance, we immediately went to the ladies room to compare Brazilian waxes and give each other tips on the best ways to flash the paparazzi when getting out of a car, sans panties. And as we exchanged tips and drug favorites, the really hyped up jazz music, the jazz musicians on crack kind of music, was playing overhead and Lindsay/June said, "I hate this kind of jazz, because it already feels like that inside my head all the time."
And I was all, "I thought I was the only one who had crack-is-whack jazz firing off in my brain!"
And so we had lunch as the jazz in our heads played and we went off in a thousand different tangents, hopping from discussions of Hulk to the state of Egypt to the best bail bondsmen to our favorite lip gloss, all at machine gun speed, trying to fit it all in.
And then she said, "I got you a gift."
And I was all, "Girrrl, I did the same!"
I gave her a Get Out Of Jail Free card, along with some Nair and a little gift bag of coke. And not the diet kind.
She gave me some Valtrex.
And then we ate.
June/Lindsay likes her Hot Tamales.
And I always eat my burgers in just this very position.
And I swear to you, we looked just like this as we dined.
We finished lunch and our plan was to go up and trash my hotel room, but then, then we saw . . .
And what woman doesn't have the hots for a harpist.
And so we cuddled up close to this music god and after he played us a jammin' tune, we suggested he might want to join us for a little Linsday and Paris joy riding.
As you can tell, from his reaction he was IN.
And I cannot show you those pictures for legal reasons, but we kind of looked like this except June/Lindsay was driving and imagine the harpist as Britney Spears and you would have us.
And I have to say that June is quite an incredible multi-tasker. You should see her drive a car, elude the po-po and have a three-way with a harpist, all at the same time. I've got huge admiration for her mad skills.
After our little thrill ride, the harpist had to get back to work, so Lindsay/June and I had our own fun with the harp.
Here she is rockin' out to my sweet tune.
Clearly, you can see the resemblance.
Here we are at the big, fancy sculpture, about to make out, showing off our ta-ta's.
Right after this, June/Lindsay climbed up on the sculpture for a dance off with a kid who looked suspiciously like the Bieber, even though the kid shook his head full of blow dried locks and claimed he wasn't. And then, he just pitifully asked for his mommy as I lifted him up onto the sculpture for his dance off.
June won. Bieber didn't stand a chance. And he knew it. That's why he just stood there crying.
June/Lindsay also serenaded me with a little "How Deep Is Your Love" while on her knees.
She is very talented, that one. Sorry about the Cujo eyes, June. I'm a total idioso when it comes to editing skills. For the record, June does not have glow in the dark eyes.
Right after this, I crawled up on the piano and suddenly security was there on the scene, just kind of watching us.
And since we are pretty savvy about knowing when we're about to be arrested, we toned things down a notch, but of course that's when the drugs started to kick in. Notice the security guard in the background, hovering.
Thankfully, we didn't pop too many pills since we were so busy with the harpist. We were able to come down rather quickly and snap some normal pictures or at least one, where June/Lindsay posed like a supermodel and I did my best Farmer Brown square dancing with double chins, pose.
And even though we had a kick-ass time, sadly, we never got around to trashing the hotel room.
Maybe next time.
Thanks June, for a fabulous lunch and three-way and electrifying car chase. I sure hope we can do it again, soon.
Today's Definite Download: The Bee Gee's, "How Deep Is Your Love" because Barry Gibb is June's Bono and we're thinking our next escapade is going to be a road trip down to South Florida to stalk Barry. He'll take Britney's seat in the car, whether he wants to or not.
And for all of you young uns who kill us, over at June's place, with your despicable comments of, "I have no idea who Barry Gibb is since I wasn't born yet", come a little closer so I can smack you. And then go right here, to see what we're talking about. He's the big, hairy one. And don't laugh, all music videos were this cheesy back in the day.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go soak in a hot tub. Between Satan's hills and June/Lindsay's wild ways, my body is a wonderland of pain.
Posted by Joann Mannix at 11:08 AM