BORDER CONTROL

On the way to a beach trip with some peepage this summer we pulled over at a gas station near the South Carolina border to use the facilities. To our horror in the car next to us was a family that looked like they just jumped out the Snuffy Smith comic strip. Well, out of the family truckster tumbles two "ladies" who I would venture a guess to be in their late teens or early twenties. Let's just say these recent flunkies from the Slim-Slow program had way too much cushin for any type of pushin. Anyway they were both wearing the same 10 sizes too small spandex shorts with the world "BITCH" emblazoned on the back. To top it off they were walking around the mini-mart bending over at the drop of absolutely nothing and acting like somewhere in those shorts was the Holy Grail. What perhaps is more sad was the local gas station gang (some old guys who obviously thought that soap was something you added to your mop water when you took your monthly bubble bath) were star-struck, acting like they were in a David Lee Roth video, sayin stuff over their stank breath like "damn baby" and "ooo wee I’d like to hit dat". Ummm...with what Cooter, a scud missile?

As we drove back onto the interstate I was thinking, "well maybe they are just being honest". Perhaps stuffed up in the cracks hidden along with the remote control and a couple of lost left socks were the words "SKANKY". If that were the case, and only few, the proud, and the very, very brave may know, then I got no problem with it I guess. Honesty is the best policy after all.