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I’ll take a slice of Americana to go, please.

I’ve been doing this new fear factor thing where we’re traveling all around the country making people do stunts on their front lawn. They sign up for it, but don’t know when we’re coming and then, BAM! We surprise them, and give them a chance to win some money and get on TV.

It’s been pretty cool, and pretty fucking weird. We’ve been doing this on an off for a few weeks now. We started out in some mini vans in West Virginia, then up to Maryland to Philly, NY, all up the east coast to Boston, and now we’re cruising through the Midwest.

Along the way we ditched the mini vans for a pimped out tour bus, so now it’s a rolling party making it’s way through this beautiful country we call home.

We’re really getting to see some parts of America that I probably would have never seen if it wasn’t for this trip.

The real America, baby.

Like a stretch of West Virginia we went through, where every other building is a church or a strip club.

And I’m BARELY exaggerating here. I’m talking 4 or 5 strip clubs and 3 or 4 churches in a 2-mile area, and not much else. I guess the theme there is just keep ‘em on their knees, no matter how you go about it. There was a bar there that was someone’s house. I mean it was just a regular house on this main street, and they hung a vinyl Budweiser sign over the front porch, and put a neon light in the front window that said “Bar.”

Other than that, it was a normal house.

Some of the families we met along the way have been right out of a Norman Rockwell painting, and it was really nice to meet them, and actually kind of rewarding to see that they’re getting some entertainment out of our goofy fucking show.

Lot’s of really nice, normal, all American families. But the truth is, there’s not much that’s all that interesting or funny about meeting them, so on to the freaks…

The other night we showed up to do a stunt at this house in the middle of the Midwest. I’ll leave out the name and exact location to protect the innocent. Being the ever consummate professional that I am, I showed up for the experience in the perfect frame of mind, helped along by 2 of Evil Aunt Emily’s nearly lethal pot lollipops.

Now, if you’re not familiar with these delightful, herbally concocted candies that I love so dearly, one is enough to coax a charging rhino into taking a nap, and two is so much THC that it feels like I’ve stepped outside of myself and I’m watching my life play out from above me and to my right.

Now, I don’t know why, but whenever I think about being out of my body, that’s where I always think I’m watching it play out from. I’m pretty sure in that “Animal House” model of where the Angel sits on one shoulder and the Devil sits on the other, that’s definitely where my devil sits. Although he doesn’t seem evil, or want to do mean things, he’s just laughing way too much, and way too hard to be the angel.

Actually, fuck… now that I think about it, maybe that is the angel?

Either way, back to the freak show… we get to this house, and immediately the man of the house greets us. He reminds me of the guys I knew in high school that had graduated 5 years ago, but were still hanging around the auto shop parking lot. The kind of guy that buys one brand of car, and stays loyal to it for his entire life. You know, the guy that has that sticker in the back window of his Chevy truck of Calvin pissing on a Ford logo.

He has several tattoos that look like they were carved into his arms by blind retards tripping on acid.

A fresh cancer stick dangles out of his mouth while he tells us about his day.

“Man, I was at the wheelie contest all day, and now you’re here!”

“The wheelie contest?”

“Hell yeah, they had a wheelie contest at the drag strip today.”

“How was it?” I ask.

“Bad to the bone.” He exclaims.

“Some of them dudes really knew how to wheelie. Ya’ll should’a came down.”

Indeed.

I laugh uncontrollably for a solid 10 seconds before I pull myself together again.

Finally I get a grip, and I describe the stunt that they’re going to have to do, which involves chewing up bugs.

The woman of the house (all 20 stone of her) asks me, “Can I take my teeth out first?”

The words out of her mouth were so perfect I had to close my eyes and smile.

I couldn’t have been happier if I had just won the fucking lottery.

“Pleeeeeeease take them out,” I reply.

At that moment, I truly felt like it was as if I had been given this incredible gift; that the universe had provided me with this real, live, brilliant comedy playing out before my eyes.

There was just no way this could all be real. It had to be a show, and I was enjoying every second of it.

Large and lovely digs a dirty paw into her mouth, yanks the fake choppers, and reaches out with them to one of her shoeless kids, “Hold my teeth!”

Her son is the closest to her, and he becomes her lucky helper. He looks down at the teeth now sitting in his palm and makes a face like someone just handed him a skunk smeared in shit.

He backs away from the table, and into the darkness as the next-door neighbors walk up to see what the commotion is.

I can’t really see them clearly yet because it’s dark out, but I see the silhouette of the boy walking up to several different people, and I hear several different voices protest as he tries to pawn the teeth off on them.

“I ain’t holdin’ those fucking teeth!”

“Get the fuck outta here with those!”

Dejected, he returns, teeth still sitting in his upturned palm, the neighbors now trailing in behind him.

The couple completes the stunt and wins the money, so all is happy, and joy is in the air.

Then the rest of the neighbors start to trickle in…

Now, to paint the scene… there are woods everywhere, with no streetlights, and it’s dark.

It’s pretty spread out between houses, and what you would best describe as a lower income rural area.

The neighbors catch wind that there’s something going on up the street, and they first gather up in a big group, and then they start to make their way towards us.

I swear to fucking god, many of them were slightly crouched over as they approached, sporting postures that were shockingly similar to the dudes that wore the monkey suits in “The Planet of the Apes.” They slowly came upon me, heads slightly cocked to the side sporting expressions that were a combination of disbelief and amazement.

They were looking at me as if I had just landed in flying saucer, and stepped out onto this lawn in a beam of light.

There were 20 people, 10 of them were wearing camouflage, 6 of them had NASCAR t-shirts on, and none of them had a full set of teeth. I swear I’m not making any of this shit up.

My smile was getting so big it was starting to hurt my face.

They surrounded me making grunts and whispering to each other before one spoke up.

“Hey man, you really Joe Rogan?”

“Yes, I am.”

“No shit?”

“No Shit.”

(BIG pause while they considered this)… “We was at the wheelie contest all day.”

“How was it?”

”Oh man, it was bad to the bone. Ya’ll should’a came.”

“That’s what I hear.”

blaaah