We just stopped at an elitist truck stop in eastern Oklahoma; how do I know that it was “elitist”? The pretentious sign flashing above the entrance: “check out our collection of fine wines”. And I promise that I am not making this up.
Before entering such a posh establishment, I felt like I needed to inquire as to their sport coat and tie policy before going inside for my daily ration of health food, which is honey buns. I fully accept that one honey bun is not healthy, but a trio is, as if you place one honeybun between two others you have a sandwich.
And sandwiches are healthy.
So went Mom inside on her own quest to discover bold new combinations of road munchies based solely on how obnoxiously the cacophony of odors interact within the confines of a sub compact SUV. How could it be that bad, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you; have you ever smelled the unholy trinity of green apple gum, dill pickle, and sour cream and onion chips? If Estee Lauder ever decides to diversify into the buck lure market, they could bottle this scent and sell it as “Eu d’evils Armpit #2”
I was left with the honor of standing outside in the rain while MacDuff sauntered around in search of bushes and curbs to salute. And Duff? there’s no reason to jack your leg that high in the air unless you have something to say or a question to ask. Or something to show off; if that is the case, I’m better off not knowing.
After he had left placed his information in a multitude of highly trafficked areas, he did something that was totally uncalled for: he returned to sniff the site of one of his previous avatars. What? Why would you do that, Duff? You know EXACTLY what your own pee smells like!
Then I was the one that felt like a nimrod when I realized what he was actually doing:
He was smell-checking his peemail…
Thank you very much, we’ll be here all week; don’t forget to tip your waiter.