Moveitfred is also in a piss-poor mood today not only just because he came back home to a shitload of ridiculous emails from work, but his head is also swimming in congestion from the constant up/down bullshit of a cross-country Southwest flight. Moveitfred's upper ENT plumbing went haywire on approach into Chicago, and today it feels like his melon is going to pop.
But enough of Moveitfred. Back to the bicoastals lavish stay in Phoenix.
Al and freddy were sent on a mission of mercy to the Valley of the Sun by the factory in order to kickstart and bring home some new production methodology through meetings with our colleagues in the Southwest. This is, of course, a fancy way of saying the two bicoastals went on vacation.
With a pounding headache and mucous running from his nostrils and into his mouth, Moveitfred is going to cut the two full days of grueling work bullshit from this post and skip right to the fun. Boss, if you're reading this, the bicoastals did however put in two full days of mentally exhausting and physically draining work before busting out the vacation stick and slapping each other in the ass with it.
So this past Saturday the bicoastals opened with a killer desert run through the searing heat north of Scottsdale. They found their way to a spectacular area called Pinnacle Peak, laced up the trailrunner kicks, and shoved a few fat tourists aside as they burned through the Sonoran landscape.
As the bicoastals were rehydrating and gaining their senses back at the end of the run they were approached by two ASU hotties (and Moveitfred is referring to the gathering heat of the noonday sun, of course) who were filming a piece on desert exercise and hydration for college TV. The bicoastals were sized up (so to speak) by the film crew and deemed obvious experts on desert fitness and survival. Al, being the MUCH more photogenic bicoastal (yes, Heywood, including you), was chosen for the on-camera segment, while freddy lurked around in the shadows snapping compromising pics of the event.
The suave Al Bangorhard was both polished and striking in front of the camera, appearing as if broadcast journalism was his profession. Complex questions from blondie like "How much water does that pack hold?" and "How long are you in town?" did not faze the inscrutable Al B. He hammered out strong, clear answers with the poise and sophistication of Cary Grant, or someone like that. In fact, Al came off as quite the expert. See, Al has never been to the desert in his fucking life, yet when Blondie opened with "Do you come here often?" Al was quick on the draw and completely convincing when he replied, "Why yes, this is my regular desert run, hon."
Here we see Al getting drilled (so to speak) by Blondie, while pert brunette looks on.
And here we see the trio pose for a group shot (so to speak). freddie has never seen Al with such a wide, sparkling grin on his puss.
Following this adventure the bicoastals hopped in the rental car and headed up the I17 to Sedona. There the battered bicoastals took on the red rock canyon wilderness and hiked deep into a slot canyon where Al got all spiritual and started chanting and raising his arms to "our Mother, our creator--the earth."
That was all fine with Moveitfred, but when Al proposed we "bare ourselves" to our mother in a wilderness sweat lodge ceremony freddy suggested an about-face to the car. 
On the way back the boys spooked a gang of wild swine from the bushes. With lightning fast reflexes, Al sprang forward and grabbed one of the peckers by its haunches, but it swung around and sank its tusks into his forearms. No telling how Al explained the puncture wounds to his wife.
In the end the bicoastals hit up Mamacita's roadside mex for some big platters of carne asada and enchiladas before heading back down to the metro area.
The following day the bicoastals got the early flight out of Sky Harbor for the long trip back to civilization. On the first leg the bicoastals sat across from this douche:
Now, take in the complete baggery of this douche in his full glory and then let's talk a bit about the tat, shall we? A lightning bolt behind the ear with two teardrops trickling out from the source?
You fucking badass, you.
Moveitfred thinks Douchie here is working off the threat of Southwest gangland murder in this pussy little creation. Course the authentic vatos wear the tat tears as notice of the rivals they have deposited into pine boxes. Sir Douchebag here probably recalled the two armadillos he flattened on the way to a motorhome convention in Albuquerque and wanted to try to impress his squaw wife with a badboy image. Sorry Douchebag, the Bicoastals don't buy your shit.
Well, the eastern contingent of bicoastals are now tucked home safe in their northeast abodes, safe from the ravages of heat, hardscrabble landscape, and the temptations of sun-leathered hotties.
Al and freddy are alright tonight.
