In all seriousness, though, we did actually "make it," which is to say, "we made it."
We've been here in The Bay (Gay) Area for a while, but we've been so occupied with things that this is the first time we've been able to sit down together at a computer and reflect on the past week or so. Like our workmanlike prose? ;)
At this point, we politely (though forcefully) request that you settle back in your ergonomic loveseat, allow the gentle glow from your computer's screen wash over your pimply faces, prepare your index digit for a heavy dose of linkology, and read the following:
We'll pick up our story in Carson City, town of wonders. After purchasing donuts at the Nugget Casino (which features "The World's Rarest Collection of Gold" -- ??!!%%*?), we wrote a blog post at Eli's homely home. You see, we were couchsurfing with a nice guy named Eli, who happens to be a world-class BMX bike rider (not JK). It was grrrrrrrrrreat! Then we decided to wake up (the next morning, you idiots!) and ride our bikes to meet Pistol Pete, who had ridden beyond Carson City and nighted in the town of Genoa, N(e)V(ada), the Silver State's oldest incorporated town.
We cycled from the bar to the city park and threw down on the only patch of grass that wasn't being pummeled by godforsaken sprinklers. Unfortunately, this minuscule camping area placed us in a highly visible spot, directly adjacent to a large graveyard, I mean parking lot (cars are coffins!). A few hours after dozing off in our sleeping bags (it was so nice out that we abandoned the tent and slept 'neath the 'stars), we were rudely awakened by a local swine moonlighting as a Folsom City Police Officer. This donut-loving oinker asked us what we were doing, to which we replied, "Sleeping, you horrendous fuck." JK! In reality, we let Pete do the talking, and he placated the greasy lardass with the fabricated story that we were riding cross-country to raise money for the American Kidney Association (as Pirate Pete put it to us a day later, "Everyone knows someone on dialysis."). The Donut-Muncher took this information to heart, bid us a good evening, and let us off the hook.