Tour De Farce™ Week Seven: That Ain’t Wright

Epic, isn't it?

It’s been a long week once again, kids. Between my PC blowing up and a power failure due to The Wind Storm of Doom™, I have had precious little time for this blog or computers in general. However, as one of my less-charming attributes is my occasional lack of follow-through with regard to my plentiful ill-conceived schemes, I have carved out this chunk of time before work on a dark and somewhat chilly Monday morning in order to complete my Tour de Farce™ entry!

To wit:

MILES BIKED THIS WEEK: 45 (9.0 miles/day, Monday-Friday)



Altamont has a lot going for it, especially if you love church, church-related activities, or activities that are not necessarily religious in nature but are held, by necessity, in one of several thousand area churches. Seriously, the entire take-away chicken industry doesn’t have this many churches!

And speaking of church matters, there are, sadly, no Hell’s Angels in Altamont, IL. Well, at least no formal Hell’s Angels club. My guess is they had a hard time finding a church in which to meet. Perhaps unsurprisingly, there is little to be found in the way of Rolling Stones memorabilia either. My plan is to open a Speedway franchise here and advertise it as “The Altamont Speedway – fast, fresh and, frequently, full of felons.”

One other thing that Altamont has, however, is the Wright house. When I first read about the Wright house, I was excited because I half-expected some sort of tenuous-but-ultimately-satisfying link between the Altamont Wrights and the Dayton Wrights. Much to my consternation, there was no link to be found. Instead of bicycles and man-powered flight, the Altamont Wrights were in the business of medicine, law and ridiculous haircuts. The primary appeal of the Wright mansion, it would seem, lies in the fact that all the stuff they’ve accumulated since it went up in the late 1800’s is still lying around in there, waiting to be ooh’d and aah’d over by tourists. I will say, however, that if laughter is the best medicine, then the mere appearance of Charles Wright I was surely the best curative to be had in those days.

Patient: “Beulah, call for Dr. Wright…my rheumatiz is botherin’ me something fierce!”

[two hours pass as Dr. Wright coifs his hair into the approximate size and shape of an enormous Valentine’s Day Hershey Kiss]

Dr. Wright: “Never fear, good sir, I have arrived with the very best apothocarial and medicinal treatments for your – “

Patient: “BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAAA! Dear Lord above, Doc, you look like a lopsided ice-cream cone!” (sounds of heels clicking, gleeful dancing) “Who can think about the pain of rheumatiz with that hairdo in the room?”

Dr. Wright: (quiet sobbing)

And so on.

Coming up next week: Sandoval, Illinois, a village that proudly declares itself to be the “Crossroads to Everywhere.” Who knew that the very nexus of the creation lay in Southwestern Illinois?


2 Responses

  1. This is a brilliantly ill-conceived plan, and I look forward to following your adventures. Also, possibly adding up my mileage on my rowing machine and figuring out where I could have rowed to, if I had a river (“I would row it in the moooorrrning…”)

  2. Thanks, Chialynn!

    On a related note, would you row it in the evening? Would you row out freedom? Would you row out warnings? Would you row out the love between our brothers and our sisters, all over this land?

    For legal reasons, nobody lets me have a hammer or a rowing machine, so this song’s all I’ve got.

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