Yeah, that’s right – I’m still yammering on (and on and on) about our trip.  Just be thankful you don’t live nearby, ’cause I’d surely show up at your front door with a big ol’ pile of boring, fuzzy photographs. And the only way you’d get free of me is to feign death…or to shart really, really nastily.  And I mean REALLY nastily, with corn-loaded fecal rivers pouring out the leg holes of your shorts. That might  drive me away, but only if it was one of those oddly percussive sharts that sprays all over. I hate that kind.

  Sunday, June 28, 2009:

We stayed at the Bar Harbor Best Western for two nights, and they are way better than those suckholes back in New Hampshire, because at least they gave us a continental breakfast.  We lingered over said breakfast for a LONG time, hoping the weather would clear up.   The Weather Channel, however, reported that there was nothing but rain, rain and more rain for the next several days. Resigned to our fate, we donned our very attractive rain gear, and hit the road for Acadia National Park.

I’m the one in black…with the antlers. 

 Once at Acadia, the weather cleared for a bit.  We went to Sand Beach, which, as the name indicates, is a beach comprised of – you guessed it – SAND!! To us non-Mainers, “Sand Beach” is a dumb ass name.  It’s like naming a forest “Tree Forest”.  But sand is an anomaly on most Maine beaches, as Maine beaches are primarily comprised of rocks, boulders, and the frozen corpses of children too dumb to get outta their swim suits and into their parkas.  Sand Beach was cool.  We walked the beach, and I saved a crab from dismemberment by a voracious seagull.  Am I not a Great American Hero?  (I chased that seagull up the beach, waving my arms at him.  It was all bravado, though, as I find seagulls to be rather terrifying. If he’d come at me, I’d have given up that crab in a heartbeat.)

Good Christ!!  Where have our antlers gone?!?!? And why are our heads magneted together? Mr. Moose – methinks you are a noodleneck!!!

We got back on the bikes and headed up to Thunder Hole.  (And I  KNOW I’m taking an awful risk here, using the word “hole” with Glaven out there.  But it can’t be helped – it was a hole!) Thunder Hole is this amazing cave carved into the rocks.  When waves pour in, it sprays like crazy and makes this thunderous clap. Kinda like the aforementioned shart, but with ocean water instead of corn-loaded fecal material. 

  

  Thunder Hole.  Don’t talk shit about it.

After Thunder Hole, we hiked up a mountain to see Bubbletop. It was pouring on us, and we climbed in our rain gear, sliding up the muddy mountain side. Once at the top, we saw Bubbletop, this enormous  boulder, which just seems to hang precariously in space.  We, of course, attempted to push it off the side of the mountain.  Because we’re all mature, responsible grownups, that’s why.  And also because we foolishly left our spray paint back in the saddle bags.  Bubbletop would NOT budge, though.  Next time I’m bringing a lever. And fifty-seven cans of spray paint.

D. is far too Canadian to really  try to crush people with this here Bubbletop. American Man up, D!  Find your man taters and crush some people already!!   Rape! Pillage! Destroy!

While descending Bubbletop (Pay attention, now, as this is the one and only running reference I’m giving you today) we saw a group of people beginning their ascent.  One of the hikers was wearing a Boston Marathon jacket!!  I immediately fell in big lust with her, or maybe it was with her jacket, but I somehow exercised a bit of self control and did not start humping her leg. 

We got back on the bikes and headed towards Cadillac Mountain.  My original plan had been to leave Mr. Moose and D. fishing somewhere while I ran up Cadillac.  I completely wussed out, though, due to ZERO visibility. The higher the bike climbed, the worse the weather became.  It was HORRIBLE.  We were inside a cloud.  Seriously – completely enveloped within a cloud.  And while this seems like a cool thing when you’re four years old, it’s actually not that awesome.  Because clouds are NOT bouncy and spongy inside.  And they do NOT taste like warm mashed potatoes or sweet soft marshmallows.  Instead, they are windy and wet and gray, gray, gray.   I figured if I ran up that mountain, I’d either run right off the edge and plummet to my death OR I’d get creamed by a car.  Neither option seemed like fun, so I stayed on the back of the bike like cargo.   

At the top of Cadillac, we met two other biker couples.  One was from Connecticut and the other was from England.  Their presence there made me feel slightly less intrepid.

AHHH!!  A biker gang!  Lock up your daughters!  Sew shut your dogs’ sphincters!!

Tune in next time when we see our very favorite mammal and then sexile D. (But not so that we can have sex with our very favorite mammal – ’cause that would just be gross.)