Just look at that,” my wife says disgusted, as I drive down an empty Florida highway.
“What is it?”
She points to the billboard in the distance. A huge sign on the side of the highway advertises a truck stop, with all nude waitresses, and homemade pecan waffles.
I flipped on my blinker and took the next exit.
“What the hell? Where do you think you’re going?” she huffs like a nun.
I glance sideways, to be certain that she’s not digging out the her pocketknife – like the time I pulled over for a female hitchhiker in Arizona.
“We need gas honey,” I pointed to the gas gauge.