Just when you thought it was safe to go online . . . Serge has returned!That loveable collector of trivia, souvenirs, and murder methods is back with a new A&8209;Tour of Florida. And this time he's out to set the record straight!Serge is upset that his beloved state isn't getting its proper recognition, so he signs on with the big Internet travel services. But his new employers aren't exactly sure they want to send their customers to Serge's favorite haunts&8212;nor do they want to provide tips on how to keep from getting killed on vacation.Serge couldn't disagree more, and he sets up his own wildcat site, hyper&8209;blogging his way down the coast with his perpetually hammered sidekick, Coleman.Unfortunately Serge's Web presence catches the attention of his nemesis, Agent Mahoney, and the chase is on.Meanwhile, professional robbery crews have begun targeting trade show exhibitors, who may or may not be what they seem. Bodies begin piling up, which is less than usual for the locale&8212;except this time it involves rare postcards. Serge has had enough! He's forced into the only logical course of action&8212;go shopping at the Home Depot.And this only raises more questions:Who is tutoring strippers through the community college?What sparked the grudge match between coin and stamp enthusiasts?How'd the astronaut in diapers get involved?Why does Serge have to stop at the NASCAR superstore?Where did all these diamonds come from? And does Lynyrd Skynyrd hold the key to everything?It all starts with a tragic tattoo parlor mishap and soon nobody is safe, especially the person on the Robert De Niro stool, because, after all, Serge has to sit there or what's the point of life?But wait! You say you want more? Serge says, You got it!Guns, drugs, bloody crime scenes, historically relevant sex, library quiet time, glow&8209;in&8209;the dark deformities, hotel drink coupons, a naked woman in a shark cage, and John Travolta.It's time to sign on with Serge and see where the twisting, sun&8209;splashed trail leads in . . . Nuclear Jellyfish!(source: Bol.com)
Nuclear Jellyfish
by Tim Dorsey.
Money doesn’t talk-it swears. -BOB DYLAN
SOMEWHERE IN CYBERSPACE
Serge’s Blog. Star date 485.328.
First off, fuck the word blog. I hate it and all who use it. “Lol,” “imo,” “Today’s mood: Introspective yet spunky.” Shut up. The Internet was supposed to become the ultimate democratic forum. It did: Now everyone can be a porn star. Then there are those retarded blogs. It’s been said that inside every life is a fascinating book, or at least a chapter. Wrong. Some people don’t have a freakin’ semicolon, like that woman in Delray who blogs everything her cat does, and her cat even has a blog and every word is meow. But you have to play the hand you’re dealt, and I can’t exactly stand on street corners with a megaphone sharing Big Answers on Everything. That was my first choice, but a monkey wrench hit the works: a few itsy-bitsy little incidents. Murder is such a charged word. You know how some people fixate and won’t let things go? They’re called cops.
So I guess I should be thankful for the Internet. Especially since my newly launched travel advisory service demands the latest cutting-edge communication technology! Who better to guide you around my fine state? Right, I know what you’re thinking: “Serge, without delay, give me an example chocked with more value than I could expect to find elsewhere!” Okay, if you’re staying at a budget motel that has mandatory daily maid service, they have a meth lab problem. Or I can tell you how to extract yourself from the wrong bar with only a paper clip and a ballpoint pen. And if you’ve ever seen a motel room scanned with one of those ultraviolet semen cams, your head would never hit another pillow. Does William Shatner provide this kind of biting insight? I think we both know the answer. Before I debuted this blog, I applied to all the big established Internet travel sites, but they said they didn’t think their clients were interested in how to choose hookers who wouldn’t take all their credit cards. I said, “Look, you can spend the rest of your days shuffling through the website ghetto, or you can make the roaming gnome your bitch.” I think there’s something wrong with my phone because the line keeps going dead. So until I get proper sponsorship, I’m forced to put up my own wildcat site. Did I mention it’s totally free? What a bargain! Let’s get to it!
Serge’s definition of total happiness: Florida, a full tank of gas and no appointments.
Except all the jerks down here keep making appointments with me. What are you gonna do? Someone has to instruct them. But as I always say, if you love your work, it’s not really work. My psychiatrist disagrees of course, because she wants to medicate my ADD and OCD. I said, but those are the most important selling points on a travel writer’s resume. We notice everything: bridge weight limits, discarded rolls of carpet padding, bleached livestock skulls, plywood signs for pond demolition, bus stop benches advertising discount vasectomies, billboards for laser hair removal featuring chicks with mustaches, witty country church marquees where Jesus battles Satan with puns, dilapidated rural homes with a baffling number of disabled schoolbuses in the backyard, and malfunctioning brake lights on the car up ahead where the hostage in the trunk ripped out wiring. Then my shrink asks about manic depression. I say I’m never depressed. She says, what about when you beat up jerks? I say I’m happy then, too.
I decided to start this service because everyone is always coming up to me and saying, “Serge, you should start a travel service.” They actually say, “What the fuck’s your problem?” But I can read between the lines. I’m constantly seeing clueless Europeans with pasty legs stumbling around the wrong motels, and I shake my head. Yep, they’re going to get robbed. So I run up to them and say they’re going to get robbed. Then I say, not by me, put your hands down. Now they’re not thinking straight and don’t listen when I explain how to cut their homicide rate in half. But they’d already know that if they subscribed to Serge’s Florida Experience! (Free!)
From the Mailbag: “Hey, Serge, how did Florida become Dirtbag Central?” Because if you pass out in the snow, you die.
