Unlike that hack Billy Joel, I'm in a Citrus State of mind, with special help from the 5 people you Really meet in heaven

Ahh, Florida. An esteemed state; an environs, if you will, inducing thoughts and feelings of warmth, serenity, and overall, unspecific goodness.

Florida (unlike Florna, the angel in disguise from the Tenacious D series) hath brought forth several excellent additions to the culture and wonder of the United States of America, it's chief contributions being Burt Reynolds, Oranges, and, of course, the talented Angelina.

Recently, I had the good fortune to voyage to the southwestern portion of said state, to visit my parental units as they transition into a mode of quasi-retirement, retreating to a life of leisure involving golf, fresh fruit, mild evenings on the linai, and for their loving son, heat rash.



"A good cure for heat rash, also known as Tinea Versicolor? Loni Anderson's tongue on your balls. And Florida orange juice - Fresh squeezed, full of vitamin C, for when you need to go The Longest Yard. And Loni likes to dip my balls in it."


"My tongue? Wrapped firmly around Burt's balls. This sassy young missus's gotta do what she's gotta do, you understand? For you, for me, for the people of Cincinnati, for Howard Hesseman, Fisher Stevens, Fernando Valenzuela, and both Ricardo Montalban, his internationally renowned height-challenged friend, and thirdly, ze plane, ze plane. And for the good people of Fort Myers, Florida - Loni loves ya!"

Yea, I had voyaged to that region of the world where reason and logic continue their troubled battle with existence, manifesting in the malaise of ignorance - but i quickly found, Dear Reader, that it was I who was most ignorant.

And it would come back to bite me in the ass. Especially on the golf course, where I found new names for Golf Balls - you know, cute names, like, I don't know, Hitler.. Stalin.. Nurse Ratchett?

One lovely segment of the experience was visiting the Spring Training home of my beloved Red Sox, in the City of Palms.





Me and Pa at the field- they left the gates open, we sauntered in. We were feeling especially happy, and slightly jaundiced. Pa's nose even dissappeared. Luckily, mine had no such inclination. The greenish short/grey shit tandem was, in fact, a conscious decision. Yes, the hair's real.



"You better call on Tyrone. And tell him to come over and come get his shit. But you can't use my phone. You can only use your instincts, charm, and gool old fashioned American elbow grease."

I saw miss Badu at Red Rocks, the greatest outdoor ampitheater in the world, in 2001. Good fucking time. The next night, Tenacious D, Galactic, and headlining, WEEN! Now THAT was a fucking show. Back to Erykah, as she is the emissary of all that is wholesome, I must ask, Just what the fuck does she say in that song, anyway? "I want a Rim Shot?" Frankly, this may be one of those evident truths that I completely miss. I pretty much know absolutely everything, but every now and then I miss something HUGE. And it's humbling - but inspiring, in it's own way; I reaffirm the knowledge that there is more to learn, and that there is an inherent grace in wisdom.


"As the fourth person you will meet in heaven, following the looming luminaries of Burt Reynolds, Loni Anderson, and Erykah Badu, I must say - I'm fucking reverent Charlie! The intensity of my stare is surpassed only by the ever expanding realm of my talent - did you see where I played the young school boy, fighting injustice against a throng of verisimilitude, with only a penchant for alacrity and a gradually diminishing sense of self-awareness with which to arm myself? I'm a Boy Scout! No, I don't got any marshmallows - Dice, you got any marshmallows?"

Alright, I admit - I have no idea what the fuck Eric Roberts would say. I do, however, know what a certain Andrew Dice Clay might say, as for many years I owned a copy of his HBO special from the late 80's / early 90's. And. It. Fucking. Ruled.

"Japanese Guy? Use a fucking Peanut Shell! Oh! What, you think I get high? Let me tell you something, snappa'head - I wanna get high, I bang my head against a brick wall two, tree times - I catch a fucking buzz! Oh! As the fucking Exquisite fifth and final person you meet in Heaven, I'd like to officially say 'Hey! What's in the bowl, bitch!' Un-fucking-believable. Sure, I sleep on airplanes - I sleep in the nude! Oh! Teacher said hey Dice, what's the difference between two threes? I said 'That's what I say, honey - what's the fucking difference? Oh! But I like you, sweetheart - You're the Goods. I like a woman so big you don't know where the poop ends, and the shit begins! Oh!"

As I am still on the mailing list for the esteemed church of Scientology, I receive their shit on a regular basis. I could return a letter saying "Stop sending me these fucking things," but then they would know that I am, in fact, alive. Instead I choose ignorance, as previously hinted above, to avoid acknowledged reciprocity and navigate this sticky river on which I currently swim. Truthfully, I am fascinated by the personage of L. Ronnie, and to conclude this very missal, I offer you, the lucky reader, a morsel of his hard-won wisdom:

"One rud unflown: cramming. The operating norm."