Billboards

[dropcap]J[/dropcap]ust 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.

 

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