Just disguisting

Dear readers, the thought of you reading this blog is the only thing keeping me going. Europe is rougher than expected. Translation: 70 degrees, sunny skies, amazing skate spots, and delicious pastries can be tough on a man's system. So we're in Paris right now. Me and Matt just spent 3 hours scrambling around the airport looking for Garrett, developing rashes between our legs from all the walking and trying our patience on the French worker. They're 90 percent of them are jerks and refuse to help. The other 10 percent are alright. Then found out that Garrett doesn't even fly in until tomorrow morning. Sorry for the rash Matt. But beware French people, we're going back to the airport tomorrow for Garrett, and we're not leaving without him this time. Or his wife. We'll find her too. Ok, so today's picture might frighten you. And it should. This is the man at the helm of what you believed to be a very stable movement. But it's ok, we're all dead in the end anyway, right? As usual, I'm off track. Back on track. So our trip over here was just fine and dandy. Being extremely sleep deprived, Matt and I passed our time by sleeping on the hard floors at the airports, practicing french slang, and discussing possible terrorist plane take over scenarios and how we'd bring those mo-foes down. Don't mess with Bolts of Thunder... Ok, I'm getting disgruntled grunts (as opposed to happy grunts, those have a different tone) from my friends and brother to go get food. We're going skating now. And going wild. Because Bolts of Thunder has gone wild. In Paris.