they pay to kiss your feet

since there's no one else around, we let our hair grow long and forget all we used to know. then our skin gets thicker from living out in the snow.

Monday, February 20, 2006

um, no thanks.

So trucker hats are where it's at right now. or maybe, they're so last season. But no matter where they stand on the fashion spectrum, they just look better on an indy-rocked out teenager than they do on a real life, in-the-flesh trucker. I know this because of the trucker and subsequent trucker hat that graced my presence on the way to Colorado. We were somewhere in Kansas - before Plainville, but well beyond Manhattan - and we were hungry so we stopped at an Arby's and started to order. It was late for dinner, probably about 8 p.m., but we needed to eat and so did the trucker who stood behind us in line. I didn't notice anything strange about him at first. I just saw a flannel shirt, some dingy jeans and a black trucker hat. I saw a grey beard and a tired man, and I thought that he was probably lonely and could use a good conversation. I was about to suggest that we all strike up a talk with this hungry stranger until the message on his hat slapped me across the face. It said, and I'm not joking about this, "Show me your tits." What? Excuse me? Show you my what? I don't think so. And I hope, dear God I hope, that the message on that hat has never worked. I could maybe understand if the head sporting the message belonged to a 20-something rock star trying to go for shock value or if Britney, the queen of shocking t-shirts, sported this message on her forehead. But I really think this trucker thought that hoards of women would gladly flash him upon reading the request. Not only did I not flash the man, I zipped my hoodie all the way to the top.


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