Oh, lawdy, Team Dinosaur has just wrapped up a Memorial Day weekend in which we collectively ingested about one-fourth of a cow (and a tasty one-fourth, at that) and drank our body weight in heavily carbonated Bud Light. Shame on us for having fun and scarcely accomplishing anything, except contributing to our eventual coronary failure. But never fear! We are back on the planning saddle, and soon enough, sweetie-pies, we’re going to unleash the official Mr. Dinosaur T-shirt.

This way, you too, can experience the tedium of explaining to the umpteenth stranger just what in H-E double hockey sticks the Mongol Rally is. No. 1 question: “How do you drive across the English Channel?”

The Chunnel, my maroons, the Chunnel. Us Jews don’t walk on water too well.

Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Dinosaur will soon be immortalized in toy form. The fine folks at Portland, Oregon’s UNKL have decided that our little endeavor is worthy of sweet, hot, poured vinyl. We are receiving a Mr. Dinosaur–emblazoned beauty, which will be mounted and serve as our hood ornament, leading us through the wilds of Kazakhstan and Mongolia like our own demented St. Christopher. See what opportunities await sweet sponsors like yourself? For the right price, Andrew will wear or ingest just about any substance known to mankind—and some you can develop specifically for him. What an unparalleled opportunity to support Mr. Dinosaur, and potentially mutate our teammate. If you eliminate his scent, we may just pay you.

I wanted to like the lady at AAA. She was a maternal lass, somewhere near 60 years, with primly pulled-back grey hair and a behind that could double as a flotation device, if she was ever in a plane crash in the ocean.

“I need an international driver’s license,” I told her, as sweet as pecan pie. Sometimes, even I can be nice.

“Where are you driving?” she asked.

“London to Mongolia,” I answered nonchalantly, as if I were driving down the road to pick up some groceries.

She didn’t even bat a dry, rheumy eye. “Where are your carnet papers? I can’t give you the license without them.”

This, I knew, to be a lie. Carnet are merchandise passports: international customs documents that simplify customs procedures for the temporary importation of various types of goods. In some money-grubbing countries, you need a carnet to drive your auto through the countryside. On our well-planned route, this is not the case. We are carnet-free, and I told the lady so, in my special saccharine way.

“No. No we don’t. License?”

She slid an application my way and stomped off, perhaps to lie to other customers. I filled out the sheet and she returned to take my pictures. I was positioned in front of a plain-white background and instructed to remove my glasses.

“Don’t smile,” she said. “This is a mug shot. Don’t grin. Don’t even show me your teeth.”

I did as she bade. Now I have an international driver’s license (cost: $15) sporting a picture that makes me look a mental patient on the lam. I can only hope the Uzbekistan border guards take mercy on me.

Recently, some folks have expressed interest in donating to our foolhardy cause, just not through PayPal. If you would like to slip us a couple bucks to alleviate the cost of pickled herring in Sweden, send a note to misterdinosaur at gmail.com and we’ll gladly provide you with the address to our top-secret lair. Moohahahahahaha!

What have I learned in the last week? Polaroid is rather reluctant to donate film to morons stupid enough to drive to Mongolia, but alcohol companies are rather receptive to the notion of donating booze to our going-away party. What does this say about society when Polaroid film has a higher value than alcohol? Sweet sunbeams, how would any of us make beautiful babies if not for alcohol? Alcohol will ensure the continued survival of the human race. Polaroids? Well, they’ll just commemorate moments best left unremembered, most likely due to alcohol. Heavens to Betsy, I’m confusing myself.

All I know is : June 30. Mark it down. That is when we will have our get-down, send-off fiesta. Mark the calendars and warm up your livers: We’re in for a doozy to remember. But not with Polaroids. If any of y’all want to toss yer two cents (or dollars) into the sponsorship pool, e-mail us at misterdinosaur at gmail.com. We’ll reply with sweet words.

And the now Mr. Dinosaur is whole again. After months of trying to orchestrate this undertaking from afar, our trifecta’s final component, Andrew, has arrived in New York City. He’s here to sell his soul to the highest bidder (anyone need graphic-design work?), and to find us one fine-fangled automobile. So now our preparations are kicking into second gear, and we’re devising the blowout bash to put every other driving-to-Mongolia bashes to shame. Or to shame ourselves. And you. Which means, of course, we’re drinking fermented mare’s milk.

Who’s ready to party?

It all comes back to the bling-bling, babies. Some of our more tax-savvy friends (ie, the ones that don’t file their tax return by tossing darts on a chart filled with numbers) have wondered, “Hey, punks. The Mongol Rally is a UK organization. And it’s not a charity.” True, but the donations are funneled through Mercy Corps, which is a charity recognized by our fine, fine country. So it’s all kosher. Or at least far more kosher than I am after scarfing down yet another taco de carnitas The crispy pork is so good in my belly! If my people had a hell, that’s where I’d be going.

In other news, visas are expensive. Like, really expensive. If other countries are so keen on having you visit, why must I fork out the approximate cost of my fall quarter, freshman year college tuition? Granted, I attended a public university in Ohio in the mid-’90s, but still. Thank heavens I don’t have any kids, or I’d so be blowing through their college tuition right on this trip.

Ladies and gents, I believe in the power of the fortune cookie. In my 28 years on earth, I’ve found them to be far better at revealing fates and cluing one into the insights of the world than horoscopes. They’re balderdash. How can the human race be broken down into 12 measly signs? No, dear readers, it’s all about the fortune cookies. (And the fact that I love Chinese food, and I’m basing my end-of-trip trek to Beijing based on the simple fact that I’ll be eating dumplings in China!)

Yesterday’s fortune cookie offered a particularly pearly nugget of wisdom. “You will travel to many places,” it read. And for once, I didn’t feel the need to add “between the sheets.”