Zed Cutsinger

I submitted an essay to Chris Gethard for his Nissan Road Trip contest. I think the actual title of the contest might be different, but you get the idea. So here’s the essay in its full glory. Thought it was worth sharing.

Chris Gethard-

Hey, man. It’s Saturday night, 7:26 p.m. I recall your essay deadline is in a day or so, so here goes nothing! The prompt (goal) was to convince you as to why the entrant would not be a good candidate to go on a road trip with? My memory is dependable (for the most part), so here goes nothing! As to why I would be the worst candidate? Because, out of any essay submitted to you by February first, this one will outshine all competitors with factual representations, through anecdotes, to why I am by far the worst road tour partner.

Last, last summer I spent thirty eight days on the road. From the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic. From Canadian cities to Texas’ tail. I covered this region in ruckus and planted my seed of unbridled enthusiasm for every second of the 54,720 minutes along the way. I will rely on my memory to share these reasons as to why you’d never want to hit the highway with me. Because, simply, why would you want to travel with someone who has an equal appreciation for the strange and discolored panels in the walls of America?

The first night of my 2008 tour I wandered around Portland, Oregon with my West Coast friends. We scouted the city for dick. If that statement draws any confusion, don’t look for a deeper meaning. The four or five us literally walked around downtown Portland shouting at guys, “Show us your dick.” Half of the yelled-at-guys laughed. The other half got defensive and angry. Sadly, no fraction showed their dicks to us. So, the first night was a failure. Up until the moment that followed. These moments, like an open mouth filled with a friend’s urine stream, were filled with my urine stream filling my friend’s mouth. The lead up to this event, the reasoning as to why it happened, could only detract from such a magical moment. And without a doubt, I’m confident in the statement that this type of discourse, this type of lowly behavior, is that of someone who you’d never want to share a car with on long stretches of highway. Especially if I included the specific image of his mouth filled to the brim, to the lips, with my amber liquid waste, that the volume splashed its way out onto my friend’s face. His scummy mustache wore its title by properly soaking said expelled liquid. And before you judge my friend, the recently deceased JD Salinger is said to have frequently drank (drinken?) his own urine. What a selfish beast, a crummy phony.

Before you get pissed off at the bottom half of the above paragraph, don’t forget the outlandish display of sexism when a crew of mentally disjointed California boys solely requested to see penises and not vaginas. In the year two thousand ten, we’re past a lot of prejudices. Sexism is one I’m sure you scoff at. So scoff at me. Scoff at us. Don’t ever get into a car with me.

But, if it makes you feel any better, any more safe about our prospective road trip, I would never pee on you, in you, or (ever) in your general direction. With or without an erection. That was a one time experience. But still, my thesis stands, don’t consider me for your road trip.

It’s too early to depart from my itinerary of Summer of 08 stories, but the idea of luck popped into my head, and now has sprung up on this page. Writing is fun like that, yah? So, the summer of 2005 included a brief excursion (Whoa, just like this brief-story! Think about it!) from Northern California down to Southern California to witness Sink With Cali III. A three day festival of punk bands getting rowdy. It was wild; noses exploded bloody and teeth were bludgeoned missing. But the ride home was when shit hit the fan. A better metaphor would be: “like side-view mirrors hitting glass.” Because that’s what happened when the driver fell asleep at the wheel. That’s what happened when tons of metal, plastic and skin traveling through time and space at 80 miles per hour veered off the highway and into a series of wooden fence posts. That’s what happened when said fence posts were quickly introduced to a speeding hunk of metal’s side-view mirrors. The relationship ended as soon as it started. They hello’d, and before either could utter, “Goodbye,” both mirrors crashed through both windows, front left and front right, and met one another (for the first time) in the middle of the dashboard. It wasn’t a private party, hundreds of glass shards attended this dashboard get together. And, all four automobile sleepers awoke in the cacophony.

Let’s reflect (OHHH!) Was this bad luck on my part? Such a disastrous, near-death event isn’t very fortunate. Or fortunate at all. I’d search for the antonym to describe our explosive wake up call. So in that respect, I have successfully supported my thesis. But, maybe I shouldn’t include this, because on the other side of the coin, none of us died or were dealt an injury, our organs and bones remained intact. So, god damn it all, I might actually be a token of good luck. Now, i could easily delete or distort this honest fact, this optimistic perspective on a hazardous failure of an event, but, you, Chris Gethard, should be dealt the facts and arrive at your own conclusion (without me as your passenger…) Man, this essay is horrible.

Okay, not that we’re done with that off road tangent (Eh? Ehhhh?) back to the Summer of 08. And more reasons to never navigate America with me.

How about the time I ejaculated on the kitchen floor of a Kansas City stranger? You’ve already heard this story, so no need to tire your eyes with an abundance of words that will only serve to remind you of images you’ve tried to delete from your memory. See what I mean? Why would you want to share a night like that Kansas City one where all who shared the room nearly passed out from laughing so hard they forgot to breathe? You would never want to forget to breathe. It’s a memory that you’d be foolish to delete. And you’re not foolish. See, there I complimented the reader in hopes of getting on your good side.

Now that I’m there, here, let me hit you with this fact: I’m a licensed driver that has been known to drive—-without accident or swerving—-for eight hour stretches of time. But, you wouldn’t want that. You’re a man, Chris Gethard. Not some boy who wants to comfortably relax, chair tilted back, in the passenger seat, as the miles and minutes float on by. This attribute I so humbly flaunt before you is one I should hide. But, god damn it, I’m here, on this page, to make a point: don’t you dare take me on the road with you. In a Nissan. Or any car for that matter. It’s just not a good idea. Sorry to disappoint.

And now it’s Sunday night, 9:48 p.m. I’m rereading what I’ve written so far and see no reason why you should take me on your Nissan trip. So, this essay is damn successful. Except for the fact that I searched your facebook for details on the essay and now realize that I misremembered the prompt. Entries were never to address why the entrant would be an awful co-road-tripper. Instead we were supposed to convince you of why we’d be passengers. But, I definitely secured the required at least five hundred words. Regardless, I should still answer a question you posed that I haven’t touched on.

“What would we do on this trip?” I’m paraphrasing.

The answer? I don’t know! That would be the fun of it. The adventure of deciding an itinerary together, closer to the date, and sometimes, on the date. For a question with no correct answer, I’m pretty sure my answer is that of failure. You wanted more of a finite answer, ideas of adventure planned out on this very page, screen before you. But, there are two hours remaining in January and I don’t have the patience to muster plans. Let alone fictional plans.

So, let’s make this fictitious adventure non-fiction and sail the highways with four wheels and a certainty of radical times. And nothing but awesome songs by awesome bands from awesome times will flood our ears. Let’s make our time, this time, that time, your time, my time, our time, just as awesome as time itself. The fourth dimension is upon us. Choose wisely, Chris Gethard.

-Zed