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Day 4: Sunday, September 18th
Sunday began early with everybody saying their goodbyes, and puking their guts out in the shitty bathrooms of a too-brightly-lit diner just outside of downtown Santa Rosa. Unfortunately, Hot Gimp already had a plane ticket back to LA on Sunday evening, so like Smelly, she couldn't join me for a fun and gay San Francisco day. She did offer to call up some friends of hers in SF to get them to put me up for the next two nights (my flight home was on Tuesday morning at 6:30AM... Eh, it was cheap), but I was all chivalrous (i.e. retarded) and said, "No, don't worry 'bout me. I don't have a hotel room booked tonight, but there are TONS of hotels in the Frisco. I'm golden. Don't worry about me. Nope, I don't even CARE that your two friends whose place I'd be crashing at are hotties who just broke up with their boyfriends and looking for some man muffin to share. Today, I'm living on the edge! Flying by the seat of my pants in the winds called 'Adventure!'" Only in hindsight does it look like I traded in my attempt to go gay for full out mongoloidation. But I digress.

I left the crew, stopped off at a Safeway for some Gatorade and some chocolate chunk cookies (hey, this combination has saved my dehydrated and hung-over ass on many post-festive occasions in the past), and then I was back on the 101 heading South.

After driving for a while (and after hearing that "you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable; And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table", and that "Good is Good" Sheryl Crow song 10 times each) I came across a sign that said "Lucas Valley Rd Exit", and I just had to take it. Skywalker Ranch is located somewhere off of Lucas Valley Rd, and if I could somehow sneak into it for a few choice pictures and maybe punch George Lucas in the nose for the filth that was Phantom Menace, then I could die fulfilled.

I took Lucas Valley Rd like a fucking bat out of hell. It's one of those twisty, turvey, curvey for no goddamn reason roads that you always think about hugging the cliffs right off a rugged coastline... Only no coastline, just death-in-the-making turns on the side of a mountain when the pretty straight valley was just below. What made my side-trip even more interesting/death-defying was the fact that this blind-turn-filled road was covered with bicycle riders. The stupidest mother fucking bikers I've ever seen. First of all, it's only a two lane road, and the lanes were barely large enough for my Cavalier to make it by. Second of all, you couldn't see more than 10 yards ahead of you on the road due to the mountain being in the way. These turns were just BEGGING me to take them at 50 miles per hour, but those asshole hippies on the bikes kept me going at a crawl. What I don't think they realized is that I have road rage. A seriously bad case of Blind Canadian (Road) Rage. What's even stranger is that I'm not even a Canadian. But I digress.

I was able to hold in my rage for about 5-6 miles (traveling an average of 10 fucking miles per hour), but Lucas Valley then turned into another road, and I knew that I had passed the Skywalker turnoff somewhere thanks to my preoccupation with honestly trying not to slaughter any hippie bikers. The Ranch must have been down that gated dirt road that didn't look like it went anywhere. It wasn't a fancy shmancy gate, and there were no guards or cameras or jedi watching it (like I had expected)... but that must have been it. Dammit. Now I had to go all the way fucking back, through the throngs of annoying, piss-ant, hippie bikers. RRRRAAAAARRGH! That was when my mind flipped and I suddenly turned into Robert DeNiro in Ronin when he and Jean Reno were booking it through the Parisian tunnels hunting that goddamn IRA bitch down like paparazzi on Princess Di's royal butt. I was taking out bikers left and right now, smashing some into the mountain with the side of my car and knocking others into oncoming traffic from the other direction. After about 50 of them my rage subsided and I was able to see without a red-haze again (thanks to the windshield wipers). I pulled into a gas station near the 101, filled my tank and squeegeed the rest of the hippie filth from my front grill and windows. Goddamn greasy hippies.

After Lucas Valley Road I then had a few hours of fun trying to get to the right exit for Muir Woods. Fuck you, California, and your inability to label your freeway exits correctly! Not only was the Muir exit NOT labeled as such at the actual exit itself (there was a sign a few miles before it that said "Muir Woods Exit - One of the next 5 exits"), but once I got off at the right exit (after touring Sausalito for a couple of days) I still had to guess which turns to take at every intersection I came across. On top of that, another thing that pisses me off is how California highways don't have any signs telling you what you can find at each exit. You either have to drive by each exit and look to see if there is a gas station or certain restaurant that you want/need, or you have to leave the freeway on every off ramp until you find what you're looking for. Listen, California, even if you don't want to get as commercial as we have things here in Georgia (with signs that show specific restaurants and gas stations at every exit) all you have to do is post a sign that says "Gas at this exit." Do I have to think of everything for you West Coast fuckers?! Hell, I even tried to help you pick a good governor, but you just farted in my face with that attempt. Assholes. You got what you deserved there.

Anyway, I finally found the right combination of streets to get me to the Muir Woods Road, and I took a couple of breaks to walk some trails at the top of some mountains to take some nice long-distance shots of San Fran and get my legs ripped apart by some beautiful brambles. Then I hopped back in my shitmobile and faced (head on) the most INSANE goddamn path (hardly a "road") I have ever driven on, let alone seen, in my life! The "road" down to the woods put both Lucas Valley and Mt. Akina Roads to shame. To shaaaaaaaaame! I was all alone for the first leg of the mountain (starting from the very top, and Muir Woods was at the bottom bottom), and I was drift racing like a fucking mad man! Yeah, at first it was unintentional, as I didn't know that the road really shouldn't be handled at over 5 MPH or else one of the infinite number of blind turns could send you to the redwoods at the bottom a lot quicker, or else smack another oncoming car or biker (What the fuck is WRONG with you California bikers?!? You pick the absolute WORST places to excercise! Honestly, I want to see the numbers for how many retarded fucks die on these steep and incredibly twisty mountain roads each year... No, make that each DAY. I know I took out 5 on Muir Woods Rd alone, and however many on Lucas Valley. Lick my fucking nuts!). But after a few minutes I had complete faith in my own mad driving skills and was swinging around those curves like the Batmobile hunting down some hot Catwoman ass! I was all over that road like spandex on Selina Kyle's fine, firm glutes.... Ummm, hold on... I have to look something up online real quick.

Unfortunately I had to SLAM on the brakes about halfway down the steep-ass Muir Woods Road -- thanks entirely to the 98 year-old stroke victim in the 62 stretch Chevy that apparently couldn't figure out the emergency break (mostly "how to take it off"). I'm mostly not a honker, but this Mr. Fucking Magoo obviously couldn't see my very large and very outstretched middle finger that I was attempting to throw in his direction, so the horn did I lay on. Unfortunately I think that the sound of the horn while he was already taking that one curve at 1KPH caused him to fucking DIE, because that is the only explanation for the dick to actually have GONE SLOWER. Since he was already dead I figured I'd help him on his way to oblivion, just past the steel barrier and over the cliff. I seriously don't know how the California cops never caught me in the act as there were over 30 cars backed up behind the old coot and me before I got us all moving again. I must have had my highest one day body count in my life by this point.

Getting past that ex-senior was just the beginning of my troubles though. 'Cause once I got to the bottom of the mountain I came upon a line of cars on the side of the road that seemed to go on forever. This confused me at first, but then I came to the entrance for the two main parking lots to Muir Woods and saw the big, bold letters: "LOTS FULL." Fuck you, California Parks Services... Fuck you.

I didn't let it get me down though, I kept driving up and down the road looking for a newly freed space, and I then began circling the small parking lots, hunting down any fat tourist I saw in the hopes that they had walked more than 5 feet and were therefore exhausted and done for the day and ready to head over to the Sizzler for some fat fatty fat foods to get even fatter than they already were. Fat fucks. After 45 minutes (45 fucking goddamn minutes!!!) a space opened up... but some dipshit driving in the wrong direction swerved into it before I could get there. Oh... My... Gawd... I put my shit car in park, walked calmly up to the driver's window and quietly knocked on it. At first, the French fuck (oh oui, he was French alright... Lot's of Frenchies around San Fran for some reason... I'm guessing because they're all gay) pretended to ignore me, but I kept knocking until his gay lover accidentally made eye contact with me and then he HAD to look. Frenchy rolled down his window and started speaking in French to me in the hopes that I would leave him alone to the space, but I would have no fucking part of that.

"Hey, French Douchebag. Yeah, you, buddy. Get out of my space right now. No, stop talking in French. I know you can understand me. Yeah, yeah, pardon moi, messieurs. You. Out. My. Space. Or my. Fist. Your. Gay. Face... Oui. That's right. I will punch you. Yeah, oh, I knew you knew English. Yeah, sure, call the cops, Frenchie. I'll explain to him that my grandfather died in Normandy to save your fucking sorry ass, and you won't even give me this goddamn space that was mine to begin with. Yeah, toodles, fuckface."

Fuck you, Frenchies! Anyway, I got a space and went on inside. I was beginning to wonder if all the time I blew driving around, getting lost and then looking for a parking space would be worth my while. I mean, it was just a state park based on trees. Big trees yes, but nonetheless trees. But, like I said, it was on my list of shit to do. Little did I know that what I would find inside the park would mark the time between the Colonel's wedding (the previous night) and about 6PM that day the (arguably) greatest 24 hours of my life (yes, even greater than my hard-earned winter's day in Scotland!). At least this 24 hour period would be the most unexpectedly awesome day of my life.