Here's a little post to keep you interested. Nothing exciting, mind you. Just a maintenance dose.
Over the weekend, I decided to go visit my friend. The friend - and the visit - have nothing really to do with the story. But that's where I was headed when I looked at my gas gauge and realized I wouldn't be going much of anywhere if I didn't stop and pay my resects to the Bush cartel. Bitter much? Moi? Noooooo.
So I pull into this gas station/convenience store which was recently bought out by some East Indian folks. Now, I only mention this because it is very pertinent to what happened.
I'm standing pumping my gas, draining my wallet, whatever, when I notice a car pull into a parking spot. I watch as an East Indian woman gets out and walks into the store. I didn't really notice anything else about her and just figured she might be a member of the family that now owns the store.
When I am done, I hang the nozzle back on the pump, curse George Bush and his tyrannical ways, and head into the store to get a drink and make payment. As I walk in, I notice the woman is chatting with the lad behind the counter. I get a coke out of the cooler - yes, I'm back on, have been for a while - and go back to the front to pay. As I come around the counter, I get a better view of the gal. She's on the youngish side, pretty and I notice she's slightly pregnant. Ok, not really sightly but more like volleyball than basketball. I hand the guy my money and, as I'm waiting for my change, I glance one more time at the woman and that is when I notice it. Her T-shirt.
Now there are plenty of T-shirts I own for painting, garden work and what-not that I would only wear out in public if I happened to quickly run out for a drink, supplies, whatever. You know the kind. They were either given to you by a misguided relative (ie. "Pray For Me - My Husband Is Italian") or they are hold overs that you bought when you were either young, stupid or drunk or all three (ie. "The Difference Between Men And Boys Is Cubic Inches" tastefully displayed inside the Chevy logo, of course).
These are the shirts that linger and linger then rise to the surface of the shirt drawer every once in a while like a pond turning. They show up during that time period when you are PMSed to the hilt and cannot look at a washing machine without wanting to murder someone dear to you. It usually coincides with the diminution of the pants and underwear drawer which is why you will often see angry, bloated women, buying bread, milk and other items of such necessity, at the grocery store clad in neon green stretch pants that highlight the lines of the giant briefs beneath them, yellow socks, all topped off with a pink T-shirt sporting a giant Minnie Mouse face or, perhaps, a large white T-shirt with the words "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!" in big, block letters. Don't look at her. Don't judge her. Just give her your silent prayers.
I don't know if this was one of those T-shirts or not. But I couldn't get over it. It was so good I wanted to take her picture. It was a gray shirt with a picture of a screaming eagle, wings and talons outstretched. Over the eagle, in big block letters colored in the pattern of the Rebel Flag, were the words "The South Will Rise Again!"
On an East Indian gal.
Now that's assimilation.