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!
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.