It’s odd how unproductive I become when I’m not in familiar settings. I’m like Linus; I need a security blanket or I freak out. If I try to write while somewhere other than in my apartment I just sit in front of the monitor and stare at the cursor, which blinks at me hatefully. It’s taunting me”¦daring me to write something and knowing I can’t”¦if I could challenge it to a fight I would.
To change topics, I’ve got a question for my readers: You ever notice how many billboards for strip clubs suddenly begin to pop up as you drive into a city? At the city limits of San Antonio, Beaumont, Dallas, and Houston some of the first billboards you see advertise the local nudie bars. I wonder if the local board of tourism has anything to do with this, or if the nudie bars themselves think these advertising locations posses the greatest probability of pulling in new customers.
I don’t know about you, but the first thing I want to see after a long and exhausting drive is a sad, hate-filled woman gyrate with faux-seductiveness in front of a group of pathetic, lonely men. To hell with visiting Aunt Jane and Uncle John, I needs me a table-dance!
In a related story a Hooters recently opened up in Waco with much fanfare. For those who don’t know, Baylor University is a very influential Southern Baptist University that rules Waco with an iron-fist of holiness. Despite the many protests and numerous letters to the editor of the Waco Tribune-Herald, the new Hooters opened much to the dismay of the local Baptists (the Catholics didn’t care; they had a priest bless the opening).
Several months after the grand opening Leigh and I were driving by the Hooters and almost got into a wreck because the two cars in front of me suddenly slammed on their breaks. Why? Well, because several Hooters girls were out in the parking lot enticing passersby with a large sign that said “Now Open.” I’m presuming the fellows driving in front of me didn’t watch television, read magazines, go to movies, or otherwise ever leave their house, and had never seen a woman’s cleavage before. Either that, or they were appalled that any sane person in the 21st century would wear shorts that look the bottom portion of a roller-derby uniform from 1971. I could’ve killed those two nitwits, and I might have done so had their abrupt maneuver not forced me to run our truck up onto the curb and into the median to avoid hitting their gawking-asses.
Am I the only person who thinks those horrendous orange shorts look like something a person would wear at night so oncoming cars could see the reflection? Ugh. And guys, they’re just breasts. Drive your damn cars and stop daydreaming. Here’s a tip: if you didn’t have any money neither the Hooters girls nor the strippers would so much as look at you. So quit mucking up the traffic.