I have to start stowing gear three days before my departure to Key West, because my schedule over the next 72 hours will be akin to one of those torture sessions in a ChiCom Red Room. I've already decided to leave my toothbrush, as voodoo against the fact that I WILL forget something. May as well be a two dollar item, I figure.
So far I have:
.38 caliber revolver. No explanation necessary, although it does remind me the children have never seen a standoff with State Troopers on the shoulder of the Florida Turnpike.
A half gallon of rum, a liter of Scotch, a half gallon of vodka. Tequila. Too bad the kids will be in the car. I'm leaving at 4 am, which is a good time to crack the rum and pour some paint thinner in the air conditioning intake. Just for headlight tracer purposes, of course. More an experiment than an essential.
Zinc oxide. I resent being called Rudolph due to sun and spirits abuse. My old man killed Rudolphs in the Big War. Fritzes as well.
The bullwhip. I figure I'll take it to a gay bar and let the boys borrow it for a while. I shall take copious notes, as I am sure they will have a far greater mastery of the thing than I.
Epiphone FT-145 Texan six-string. Just in case the vodka doesn't sufficiently hammer me, and the Velocigirls want to hear a bawdy version of Bimini Bay. This falls somewhere between no and not likely, but you never know. I am famous for improvised humour on family vacations.
Habanero pepper sauce. The traditional Mexican way to purge the body of bilious humours, and tequila, of a morn.
Douglas titanium 20-speed road bike. Far more efficient than saunas as a purgative of vile internal poisons. See: habanero pepper sauce.
Two tank tops, two pairs of shorts, sandals. I can't go around buck naked, can I? Well, I can, but where would I secrete the pistole?
Tucks Medicated Pads. See: habanero pepper sauce.
Hashish. This one is still a bit iffy, as I don't actually know anyone with any hashish. Plus, my politically correct antennae will sniff out and refuse any Hezbollah Lebanese Blond. No, what I need is some United States Government certified, thoroughly vetted and rehabilitated Afghanistan Black. Although in a pinch I suppose I could make do with some Phalangist Lebanese, or even Druze. But how do you tell? Better to stick with the Black. Turkmen make that, too, and I think they are allies, of a sort.
What am I forgetting? Plenty, I'm sure, but I have a couple of days to pull it together. Oh, yes. Gasoline.
This is great, but gee, it's almost like I'm planning two vacations. One for me, and one for those other three people. Well, if they haven't figured out yet it's all about Dad, this is a good time for some summer school. And I should make a note to stick that Precious Cargo on Board sign in the rear window.