Tuesday, August 23, 2011

I blew out a flipflop .. so where's the damned margarita?


I can't tell you how many times I heard Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville without ever appreciating the emotional, devastating angst of when he stepped on a beer tab and blew out his flipflop. I mean, it sounds funny, and I grinned picturing it.

(wait a sec...let me freshen up my wine glass ...)


(okay, sorry, I'm back. Found some chips and salsa, too. Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yeah, emotional trauma)

Back to my story. So there I was, surrounded by palm trees...well, I was in LAX, not Florida... his story takes place in Florida, right. Anyway, I was trying to get an early flight back to Illinois, but couldn't. So I'm stuck in California. Yeah, I know, there are worse places than California, huh. Like maybe Waterloo, Iowa.

So get reservations at the LAX Ramada, no, Raddison... Radison? Radish? Anyway ...

(dammit, there's a fly buzzing around me. Must want my salsa.  Get out of here!)

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, LAX.  Oh, and how come there aren't good looking stewardesses anymore? Are they all off cheerleading for XFL teams or something?


So I've got my reservations, and I'm tired, just want to sleep, and I head off to the bus shuttle to the hotel. Some blonde skinny pierced chick sees my yellow reservation hotel slip and she says, "hey, do you know where the shuttle.."

Before I could answer, it happened.

Yep, total flipflop blowout.

(wait a sec while I load some salsa.)

*** crunch, crunch, wine slurp ***

Damned good salsa, made with tomatoes, green peppers and onions all from my own garden. Good stuff.

Back to the story. Yeah, somehow the toe of my left flipflop caught on one of the rugs near the exit of the airport.  It ripped up the cloth that went between my big toe and its second lieutenant. So the flipflop was just hanging there suspended from the loops that go over the sides of my foot.

Blonde pierced chick was looking at me, so I tried taking a step. And couldn't.  That one tiny broken part of the flipflop invalidated the whole of the rest of the flipflop, making it totally unsuitable and unsuited for travel. It wasn't gonna go anywhere.

I tried walking, but it was like a horse with a broken leg. The flipflop just dangled from my foot, refusing to get back into its flipflop position. I leaned over and tried to tuck the cloth in between my toes, but no dice. Nothing. I tried to tie it around the toe, but it wasn't having it either.

Giving pierced chick an apologetic look, I headed off to find a flipflop store. And I found out there wasn't one...at least on this side of Security. And I wasn't going back through the 'let's see Norm's innards' x-ray machine. So I walked barefoot to the shuttle and went to the hotel.  Once there, I knew barefoot wasn't going to cut it anymore, so I put on the flop (there was no longer any flip to it), and shambled along to the reservation desk. After signing in, I found out where the gift shop was, and shambled that way sliding my foot like a new-born zombie.

Gasping, I limped into the gift shop and said to the pregnant girl chomping gum at the counter, "Where are your flipflops?"

It was California, surely this was a given.

Sure enough, she languidly pointed to a remote corner and I shuffled over.  Ah, a veritable paradise of flipflops.

All sizes.

All colors.

All uniquely crafted.

And ... all female.

And now I realize why Jimmy Buffett needed the margarita after busting his.


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1 comment:

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