Over Memorial Day weekend, we drove to Great Smoky Mountains National Park for some hiking and bonding. On the way, we saw this place somewhere in North Carolina:
I decided this a great place to pull over, so, without warning anyone else in the car (to include 3 sleeping children, a dog, and an oblivious bride), I went inside, slammed my fist on the glass display holding old watches, pens, and necklaces, and addressed the cashier with,”I wanna rock!”
The cashier/presumed owner looked to be about 103 and, clearly, was not as familiar as she should’ve been with Dee Snider.
Cashier: You looking for a pet rock?
Me (raising fist): I Want…To…Rock. ROCK!
Cashier:
Me: Don’t you want to know what I want to do with my life?
Cashier: No. In fact, I think I’d like you to leave.
So, I walked out, reentered the minivan, and continued down the road in pursuit of more pop culture references that would be lost on rural North Carolinians. Then, I saw this:
Again, I pulled over and exited the van. I grabbed a bucket from the pile outside the door, put some gravel in it from the parking lot, dropped my wedding band on top of the heap, and walked inside. A man resembling the midget Santa on the billboard was behind a table next to a wall with a list of prices tacked to it.
Me: (showing him the bucket and pulling out my ring): I’m rich, bitch!
MidgetSanta: That’s someone’s ring. You didn’t pan for that.
Me: Like Hell! I’m rich, bitch!
MidgetSanta: I don’t like your language, son.
Me: I dislike your lack of enthusiasm regarding my recent fortune. You better recognize!
MidgetSanta: I think you should leave.
Me: I think you need anger management counseling. You’re obviously not dealing well with being surrounded by the nouveau riche. That pretty much makes you an asshole, considering your profession.
MidgetSanta: GET THE HELL OUT!
At this point, I decided it best to continue on towards the mountains without additional stops, content that I’d created enough blog fodder for one afternoon. Plus, Pretty Bride was wondering why I kept stopping for directions (despite the Garmin), sprinting out a few seconds later, and peeling out without explanation. Not that she’s surprised any more.
These people obviously lacked any higher culture in their upbringing. I hope they at least got home and googled it.
.-= Jim´s last blog ..The Canoe Trip =-.
Marauding muskrat makes music (maybe?), meets mini-me mining for metal, meanders mindfully, marking Memorial moments.
Muskrat, you gotta watch out for them mountain folk. Haven’t you seen Deliverance? Although, that was set in north Georgia so maybe them mountain folk need to watch out for you. Boy.
.-= A Free Man´s last blog ..Shock shock horror horror shock shock horror =-.
That’s so weird – I mean, what COULD they be naming twisted sisters after? You’d think that if you named your business something like twisted sisters, you’d have a sense of humor at least…
.-= Jill/Twipply Skwood´s last blog ..War on Paradise =-.
Jim, I doubt it, I’m sad to say.
AvatGardener, They were some “moments” indeed.
FreeMan, I saw the TBS version, which means I was likely robbed of its full effect.
Jill, Ain’t no humor in the Appalachians.
Where’s the part when you yell “HOLLA!” at someone?
When you can take your front teeth out, go back and try again.
You are crazier than I thought you ever could be! How’s that kewl van?
My darling, it has been many, many years since I was surprised at anything you do. My love only grows deeper each time you humiliate us.
Smooches!
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