Profile #4

Neal Anderson:

Neal was a child raised by aborigines of the NBA. We have no idea who his real parents were but we found him working on his 3-point shot on the side of a barn in ghettos of Missouri. We befriended because we knew we needed a thug on our side: Someone who could strike fear in the hearts of people.

After getting to know Neal a little more we were shocked to find out he was white. That is right, although his skillz that pay the billz would prove otherwise he is white. Chief Slim and Jason were in a wrestling match about whose tin can phone was better and Neal kept running up to them (while they were pinned) and smacking them on the head...It was the funniest thing to see.

But I am getting off track. He is baller of the group. Not quite the shot-caller (holler) nor does he ride an impala, but he has strong moral and keeps spirits high. We have deemed him the chef on the trip. So far we have eaten a lot of cereal and grilled cheese sandwich's (which are wonderfully delicious!).

When we asked him if he wanted to travel west with us he said..."Big gulps huh...sweet I'll come!" His ambitions include figuring out the probability we will survive this trip, starting a league called CBT (i hear he might get MadDog Tannen to make an appearance, maybe even Billy the Kid) finding a little lady to settle down with in hopes to create his own starting 5 basketball team and bringing water awareness across the great lands.

As this trip unfolds we hope many things from Neal besides his exquisite cooking talents and high morals, like a b-ball game with the natives where he drops 50pts. 15 ast. and 30 rbs. We would have to change his name to hot. Hi Hot how are you. His answers would come in the form of dribbles. 1-dribble yes, 2-dribbles no, cross-over maybe, behind the back I PITY THE FOO!

Time to go

I awoke frozen. The only thing I could move was my right pinky. Slowly I curled it and in front of me was a flame with a face. It hissed at me and proceeded to enter my body through my chest. I arched up on my back and nearly fell from my bed. Still paralyzed I attempted to yell for help only to have an empty whisper escape my mouth.

That's when Rob appeared and like a rubber band pulled to full tension I snapped back up and exhaled 8 oz of stomach acid.

The radio blasted Yankee Doodle and we finally decided it was time to continue on the trip.

Man, Fort Kearney was fucked up.

Captains log

Captains log. We have lost track of time and although weeks have passed we have not moved. After the squirrel incident we have all gone frozen by our surroundings.

Anther wagon passed us by last night, or was it last week. I think somewhere along the trail we entered into a time warp where we stand still but life keeps going on. I turned my head last night and here is what happened:

I could feel a breeze flowing over my face. I looked out in the horizon and the tumbleweed was not tumbling; just sitting there.

I looked forward and a mogwai was in front of me asking me if i had HBO or MTV. I am unsure what each of these things are, but was more freaked out by this cute little cudley dude just talking with me. I mean the words were very raspy and he seemed friendly, but something said don;t get him wet.

As I was about to pet the mogwai i was transported to a 3D land of 64bit fun. Some guy named mario was challenging me to a game called tennis. There was a maharishi there playing a guitar singing "Life on Mars" and i had a montage of our trip thus far.


Well I did end up winning the tennis match 3-2, but after I won i looked left and there was wagon. I shook my head and decided to walk around. As i got i out fell flat on my face. It turns out that someone put our wagon up on some rocks and although the wheels were moving we were not. Hopefully we can get off this rock and back on the trail.