Things to do in Boulder when you're dead

What the fuck, man, a blog is supposed to be updated daily ... Multiple times even. How the hell am I supposed to become famous blogger is I don't GET ON IT?! Check out this tale of whoa, as in, whoa, what a fuckhead.
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My name is Greg Jerrett. I am the direct male descendant of Jaret of Camerton Court and his father Gerard de Tornai who conquered England alongside William in 1066. My ancestors were hardcore Normans, the kind of men who kept alive the legend of King Arthur while living in France and when it came time to kick ass, they did so with relish.

Fast forward about a thousand years...

Last Friday I was working my ass off at my new temporary job, cab driving, when I picked up this couple from Chicago. Their car broke down in Carson, Iowa -- a shithole by any estimation -- and then they were robbed by passersby posing as good samaritans. The cops picked them up and dropped them off in Council Bluffs ostensibly to get them some help. They didn't even help them make one phone call to get some cash. They slept in a field.

I picked them up at the last minute Friday. I almost didn't take the call. I don't work in Iowa much until the end of the day when I come home and figure that while I'm driving home, if one call comes in, I can handle it and who knows? Who knows indeed.

I took them to the Hy-Vee to get some money wired from a rich friend in Boulder so they could continue their journey to Colorado by whatever means necessary. They had no ID, no credit cards and a dog they wouldn't inconvenience by putting in a cage for anything. So they actually paid me an inordinate amount of money to drive their asses all the way to Boulder. Yeah ... that's a lot of time on the road and a lot of money. From 10 a.m. to 4 a.m. Sunday I drove almost non-stop. No real breaks, just bathroom, gas and food stops.

As soon as I dropped them off, I headed back. That was the really interesting part of the journey, too, because I was all alone in the wilderness and believe me, there ain't shit out there. Between Boulder and Lincoln, there are two towns, Kearney and Ogallala. I kid you not. Everything else is scrub brush and fear of the unknown.

At one point, I was listening to a lame radio station. I hit the search button and, I swear, it went all the way around the dial and landed on the exact same station. At 2 a.m. I was so tired, I pulled over and bought some spicy corn chips. They are better than coffee at keeping you wide awake on the road.