We had a lovely time, even though the "resort" itself resembled a Catholic college circa 1972. N had to act all bizness-like, whereas I wore the same underwear all weekend. The highlight was getting to spend some time with Mr. Blogfucker himself. We ate ourselves silly and wandered about on jettys without falling into the cold, brackish water.

The most noteworthy point of our adventure, however, began in Manhattan, when we went to pick up our rental car. We had reserved a Chevy Malibu. We were given an Escalanche, or, to be fair, a Trailblazer.

The Trailblazer has serious horsepower and comes with road rage built in. There is no reason why we should have been allowed to drive it off the lot. We filled the tank twice over the weekend. This permitted conversation nuggets such as "$2.89 a gallon! That's a bargain! Pull in!" and "What does that motherfucker in the Mitsubishi think he's doing in the left lane? Get up on him!"

It was not unlike when Ralph Nader test-drove the Mercedes SUV. We became animals of prey. Punishers. Enforcers.

By the end of our trip, while we were driving home on I-95, N admitted to me: "Y'know, I kinda like driving this."

I admitted to him: "I kinda like not having any physical contact with you whatsoever while we drive." And it was true. You could've seated a small person between us, on the console. It was rather comfortable.

Yes, we now know why those assholes drive SUVs. It's because they're powerful and imposing. And most important, they allow you to pretend that you live in your own climate-controlled world with four cup holders.

It is safe to say that we became one of them. But only for 48 hours.