Ole Quint's a tired soul, mateys. This posting is the direct result of 96 hours of rapid-fire neuron activity, none of which even closely resembled sleep - unless you'd consider the brief moment I zoned out after whacking my prefrontal lobe against Tress' station wagon windshield.
How did I end up banging me noggin' on her windshield, you ask? Well, I felt that the least she could do for an old friend such as meself was to overlook my borrowing of her vehicle for at least a few days worth of my journey to the Keys of West. And so, just like that, I tacked a note to the back of her mother's ass before I left informing Tress of the favor she'd be grantin' me.
At least, I had all intentions of leaving a note, but it may have escaped me memory as my concentration was otherwise engaged at the time - let me just say that her mother has a superb derriere! And now that I think of it, my failure to leave written notification of my plan might explain why Ole Quint ended up in a high speed chase on I-95 in a last-ditch effort to evade the several state troopers that were tailing me, and also why he ended up driving off a particularly steep embankment in the first place! Surely Tress believed her wagon was stolen!
I'm actually quite embarassed that it hadn't actually dawned on me until now why the cops were tailing me! I just made a run for it because, well, given me spotty background, I figured it would be in me best interests to avoid any interactions with the authorities.
But either way, now all ye know what happened to me noggin', and the way I see it, a bump on the skull is a fair trade for avoiding what quite possibly could have been a lenghty prison vacation. And avoid it I did! Ya think the cops in Florida are gonna risk death chasing some drifter like meself down an embankment that's steeper than Gwen Stefani's chest(pre-surgery)? Hell no! I'd wager my vas deferens those lazy bastards didn't even want to catch me. That would mean they'd actually have to get out of their air-conditioned cruisers and work up a sweat!
So as he writes these words, yer ole pal Quint is enjoying a particularly strong libation in a drab establishment located somewhere in a lovely town called Miami. Have you ever heard of such a name before? Ridiculous! I'd personally call it "Titville" because titties are all I've been seeing since I got here, but Governor Bush is something of a coward when it comes to embracing such name changes. My letter to his secretary suggesting that they modify "Tallahassee" to the much more approachable and easier to spell "Watchthatgirlpee" has of yet gone unanswered.
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