Corndog Anyone?

You guys have some idea how often I visit truck stops. I've talked about the joy of finding yourself in a South of the Border truckstop after midnight, searching for directions because someone doesn't trust his state of the art satellite navigational device. When you travel in a motor home, truck stops are a required short little spin through hell. You can't just yank that land yacht into any little mom and pop gas station and hope to ever get back out again, so we tend to frequent truck stops when we travel because we know we have room to maneuver, the fuel tends to be cheaper there and you can't buy entertainment like you find at a Route 95 South truckstop for any price. And if you get lucky, sometimes they have a Burger King.

But there's another price to pay for everything that's good.

I was standing in the check out line, my "Bubba" radar on full alert, having given the clerk my credit card, and was waiting for the fuel pump to for the love of God STOP already, when a little fella with a shock of greasy black hair, big fat belly, and the most impish expression you ever saw on his face, came sidling up to me. He grinned. I cringed. He looked at the clerk, grinned a little wider, scooched over a little more my way, and said (get ready, here it comes):

"Gimme one of them there corndogs to go and hey little lady, you wanna come join me while I burp this thing up for an hour or two?"

I stopped cold.

I looked down at him.

He grinned back.

I thought, possibly out loud, but I'm not sure, "Jesus Christ on a cracker."

Then my traitorous lip twitched.

And I friggin cracked up.

Then we proceeded to get into an argument over whether "I'm the Happiest Girl in the Whole USA" was performed by Donna Summer.

I won.