24 August, 2005

Southern Exposure

...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?"

No.

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,

"Dayum!"

"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)

3 comments:

Des said...

BACK dat azz up! I says, BACK dat azz up!

;)

Paul said...

An exhibitionist who's suddenly self-conscious? That's more than a little ironic, don't you think?...

no-e-plz said...

I'm glad I'm not the only one who gets 'harassed' in my own neighborhood while walking the dog...I'm just better about looking glazed over and ignoring comments ... to the point that I don't know it when people are actually talking to me...but its not about me, its about Mostly Decorative...