RIIIIIITCHIIIIIIEEEEEE

Unlike RIIIIIITCHIIIIIIEEEEEE, we made it out of Clear Lake looking like humans, not birria.

RIP, Donnaphile.

Clear Lake was great, the Surf Ballroom, where RIIIIIITCHIIIIIIEEEEEE, the Big Bopper, and Buddy Holly played their final show, was open for peeking but not for business. They are hosting part of the Iowa Independent Film Festival and Kevin Costner’s band is playing there tonight.

Field of Dreams was aight but I prefer the mojado version, Fieldworker of My Dreams or Pick My Supper and Shut Up.

Pulling up to the ballroom, we almost parked in the wrong spot.

Yeah, Phyllis.

We parked beside a Nissan. I took notes.

We headed towards the ballroom’s box office.  Its famous sign was a little overgrown.

Well, Bow Wow is playing next week.

Inside, it was rockabilly (is this) heaven (no it’s Iowa).

“OMG, are you the lead singer of Grease My Chorizo?”

TJ said, “If you’re gonna keep screaming Ritchie, go outside.”

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCHIEEEEEEEEEEEE!

After getting out all my Ritchies, I came back for some serious admiration.

The Big Bopper’s final facial expression.

The oracle’s name was Donna?

We split and went antiquing. We are antique whores. We are not old sluts.

Self-hatred.

I attract satanic fans.

(I) saw Willie Nelson.

A series of magazine covers amused us.

Those were the bizarre iceberg’s tip. And it was a big tip.

Lisa is a spokeswoman for Republican birth control.

Jesus is having performance issues.

Orale, Green Eyes, your not suppose to frame yoursalf!

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