True Story.
4am. A Saturday night.
I was driving home in miserable conditions. The recent snowfall was followed by a rise in temperature, leaving the road an unforgiving mess of slush. The snow turned to sleet and a light fog settled over the shiny black asphalt. I pulled up to a red light next to someone checking their phone in an old-model Honda Civic. The light greened and I pulled ahead on my way.
About a car length's distance ahead, I flipped on the cruise when a flurry of honks cut through my Herbie Hancock. Given that Honda and I were the only two on the road, I figured that my attention was sought.
Nice, I thought. This guy's noticed something wrong with my truck. In this weather. Ugh.
I slowed to let Honda come nose-to-nose with me and put my window down, per his frantic handroll-gesturing request. I was a bit thrown off by his colorful, Louis Vuitton-y hoodie. Our eyes locked at 25 miles per hour and he spoke:
"'Ey, yo. Where da hos at?"
..."where da hos at???"
"Hey, uh... I dunno. Give me a call if you find them though."
He smiled (although his eyes betrayed him as I thought I saw just a touch of disappointment in his eyes) and I rolled up my window and took it back up to a hair above the speed limit, leaving Honda behind on his lustquest.
This is the second time that this question has been asked of me* and I'm still just a touch dumbfounded. I can't help but ask you, reader:
Do I seem to be the guy who would know where the hos are located? Perhaps I'm obliviously putting out some vibes that people looking for "casual encounters" pick up on?
Well, this might explain why my pimphand be so strong...
*See February 02, 2003
I was driving home in miserable conditions. The recent snowfall was followed by a rise in temperature, leaving the road an unforgiving mess of slush. The snow turned to sleet and a light fog settled over the shiny black asphalt. I pulled up to a red light next to someone checking their phone in an old-model Honda Civic. The light greened and I pulled ahead on my way.
About a car length's distance ahead, I flipped on the cruise when a flurry of honks cut through my Herbie Hancock. Given that Honda and I were the only two on the road, I figured that my attention was sought.
Nice, I thought. This guy's noticed something wrong with my truck. In this weather. Ugh.
I slowed to let Honda come nose-to-nose with me and put my window down, per his frantic handroll-gesturing request. I was a bit thrown off by his colorful, Louis Vuitton-y hoodie. Our eyes locked at 25 miles per hour and he spoke:
"'Ey, yo. Where da hos at?"
..."where da hos at???"
"Hey, uh... I dunno. Give me a call if you find them though."
He smiled (although his eyes betrayed him as I thought I saw just a touch of disappointment in his eyes) and I rolled up my window and took it back up to a hair above the speed limit, leaving Honda behind on his lustquest.
This is the second time that this question has been asked of me* and I'm still just a touch dumbfounded. I can't help but ask you, reader:
Do I seem to be the guy who would know where the hos are located? Perhaps I'm obliviously putting out some vibes that people looking for "casual encounters" pick up on?
Well, this might explain why my pimphand be so strong...
*See February 02, 2003