Looking for new car. Not that I particularly need one, but when one drives nearly 80 miles a day to work and back in a pick-up truck somehow a Prius seems like a good idea.
What am I looking for? Anything but a minivan. I hate minivans. Driving a minivan is like dating a big-boned Baptist girl with lots of inner beauty, who doesn't wear make-up, and suffers from gout. I went out with a girl like this once because I thought God was punishing me. I'm not saying 'Grace' was ugly, but if it wasn't for the tide, nobody would take her out.
We went to a place called 'Cheap Bobs.' Part gas station, part convenience store, part restaurant, and part moose lodge (more on the mooses later) . . .or is it meeses? The convenience part resembled a 1980's era Soviet grocery store; a box of Corn Flakes, some matches, those little spoons with flags on them, a stack of dusty Spam. . .and all watched over by a dog of dubious lineage named 'Scrap Iron' in the corner.
We ordered the seven course meal little knowing it consisted of a six-pack and a hot dog. One with no ketchup, mustard, or chili sauce. As I relished this non-nonrelished hunk of dead animal flesh, Cheap Bob walked in and grinned. Bob is so cheap he breathes through his nose to keep his dentures from wearing out and so fat that if he had to haul. . .um. . .grass, he'd need to take two trips.
Grace drank the beer, all six of them, while I mumbled a quick prayer over the dog.
"Bless this meat, darn the skin, while I cover my nose, and cram it in."
I have never considered myself an overly-religious man, but sometimes it is better to be safe than sorry.
We made small talk for a time, but our cultural differences made deep intimate conversation an impossibility. Soon, we found ourselves in a war of words, only I didn't get to use any of mine. Fortunately, the effects of the overeager drinker took hold and Grace excused herself to the facilities.
And that's when I made my great escape.