Phillipe and Jorge have just returned from a research trip to Myrtle Beach, SC. As many of you know, your superior correspondents have a scientific acumen on par with that of Nobel Prize laureates — or at the very least, NASCAR pit crews.
Our mission, which we did choose to accept, was to examine the use of various types of grass in varying outdoor climates; irrigation techniques of same; the positioning of man-made ponds and lakes in various configurations; and graded, undulating, tightly-mown settling sites. This testing, done on a daily basis during our stay, was performed using small, very resilient white balls, which were randomly — and we mean very randomly, sweetheart — propelled to various locations on the grass and in the water using graphite shafted lab instruments known by technical terms such as “mashies” and “niblicks.” The end of the testing each day focused on other local fauna, where we determined how well an herb such as mint might react when combined with simple syrup and a brown alcohol solution known by the quaint locals as “Jim Beam.” This is a process known to create a “Jew-lip,” which we regarded as rather offensive to our friends of the Hebrew persuasion, but fortunately they were thin on the ground at the local lab sites we employed known as “country clubs.”
P+J were unfortunately denied a chance to hook up with disgraced Nawt Prov Councilman and member of the Little Rhody version of the Three Stooges, Raymond Douglas III, currently under indictment along with his two other fellow council-Stooges for allegedly taking a bribe. A judge rebuffed his request for special permission to travel with a friend and his brothers-in-law to play a few rounds of golf in Myrtle, which is surely cruel and unusual punishment for such an upstanding civil servant, who has resigned from his Nawt Prov post along with Messrs. Howard and Fine to spend more time with his family.
But Phillipe and Jorge did arrive just as Myrtle Beach Bike Week was taking place. We would suggest that this be renamed Hog Week for a number of good reasons. First, in deference to the many bikers who refer to their Harley Davidsons as “hogs.” Second, because the riders generally appeared to be obese, overly hirsute, swinelike slobs of an average age of about 50. Third, because the women who were frequently seen on the back of the bikes were almost uniformly fat pigs. The fact that the most popular gathering spots for the Harley tribe were watering holes named Beaver Bar and the Dog House helped further the animal kingdom analogy.
There was tension in the air this year as Myrtle Beach had just passed ordinances requiring helmets and much-reduced noise pollution, which did not sit well with the riders, who set up shop yards from the town line, north and south, at favored bars such as those previously mentioned. And much was made of the fact that the bikers then took their business to other towns, including some in North Carolina. That suggested that the town fathers had not passed the shrewdest of laws. But then anyone who thinks South Carolina as a whole isn’t a thinly-veiled racist, single-digit IQ, cracker paradise with an adulterer for governor and politicians who are still working on that walking-on-hind-legs trick, must have never stopped by the Palmetto State to salute the Confederate flag a few times. The only thing P+J really picked up from our stay relates to Governor Mark Sanford, whose public humiliation will now allow us to use the euphemism “hiking the Appalachian Trail” when it comes to describing extramarital affairs in this space.