Stop signs and other things

So, there we were, standing next to each other in a cornfield, peeing.  We hadn't started out looking for a place to piss, or a cornfield for that matter.  We were trying to find a casino.  

I knew the best way to go.  I had driven this route a hundred times and it was the easiest way to go.  We were not downtown.  We were out east, in the land of three martini and botox lunches. This was my territory.   

"We have to get on the fucking interstate, take a fucking right on the correct exit, and take a fucking left to the promised land.  How hard can it be!?!?" 

Finally, I had pleaded enough and we were on our way.  I was days from leaving the place I had called home for 20 years, picking up my belongings and shoving off in my Durango for the great white north.  We, Eazy and I, were in the midst of an epic bender.  We were on day five of seven, making sure that the town was no longer mourning my exit.  We had fought, drank, vomited, drank some more, and basically made ourselves into cartoon mud puddles.  You know, the bottomless kind that were sure to swallow a whole piano.  There was no stopping us.  The world was our, well, something.  

We hit the road, heading south into the vast unknown: Mississippi.  The lights became less frequent and the roads became more rural.  But, hell, I had driven this road a hundred times.  I used to sell insurance down here for christ's sake!  "Just listen to me and all will be fine."

As we neared the "left turn of doom", I remembered something that I probably should have warned Easy about.  Remember when I said "the lights became less frequent"?  Well, they sure needed to put a light near the stop sign we were about to blow through at 70 miles an hour.  

Whether you realize it or not, a Jeep Wrangler was not meant to go airborne.  After the stop sign, there was nice berm, followed by a drop into the abyss.  And, by abyss, I mean some poor farmer's corn field.  We launched a good 50 feet before we finally touched down and came to a muddy halt.  Neither of us spoke.  We got out of the car and surveyed the damage, shocked that the jeep seemed to be in tact.  My nuts were still pretending to be joey's in kangaroo mama, but all was well besides that.  

We had to pee.  After a long flight, I always do.  

So, there we were, standing next to each other in a cornfield, peeing.  And we hear a voice.

"Guys, what are we doing in a cornfield?"  

Never forget someone is sleeping in backseat.