...we could go down with a smile on, don't bother to pack your nylons/ just keep them pretty legs showin'....
When the contractor’s truck comes around the block for a third time, I write down his license plate. What? WHAT?
A man in a minivan pulls to a stop.
"Hey, kin I talk to you?"
I keep walking. "You am some (mumble mumble) beetch. Whasho name?"
I do not answer.
Mr and Mrs White Trash shamble past, pushing a dirty child in a dirtier stroller.
"Aww, lookee the purdy doggie, Bubba!"
Then, as I pass, from Mr White Trash,
"Good morning, sweetheart! You look fanTAStic!"
Uh, thanks, Grampa. Go back to your yardwork. Check your pacemaker.
"Hey, Miss! Miss!"
I turn to face the person addressing me.
"I jes gotta say, I thought I look good in mines, but you…oooohhhhweee, I wish my huzbin could see you."
Goddamn it. Okay, screw comfort. Obviously, I’ve miscalculated the correct length for cutoff jean shorts, and not by a little. These Daisy Dukes (aside: thank you, Hollywood, for in your infinite wisdom producing a movie to resurrect this piece of nearly-dead cultural iconography) are hereby consigned to the trunk of my car, marked 'For Emergency Use Only.'
Or perhaps 'Caution: Contents Under Pressure.'
(Drive South; John Hiatt)