Tonight was date night a chez nous, and I took Mr. P for Indian food at a place on the West End. The food was pretty good, we had a lovely time. In the parking lot Mr. P was getting text messages from friends at the 1708 charity auction, so we were sitting in the car while the texting was going back and forth. Parked in front of us was a ginormous pick up truck with a built in tool box across the bed of the truck just behind the cab. A guy appears, clearly the owner of the truck, and he is, shall we say, to type.... big hoss, shaved head, serious accent. He is being followed by a couple, the guy looking like a shrunken version of the truck owner, but stuffed into taking-someone-on-a-date clothes. The woman had big, blonde hair, too much makeup (if I can see it in a dark parking lot twenty feet away, that's too much), and a much too tight black dress that had ruffles and sparkly things on it. As the bald fellow comes into view he says,
Gonna get drunk tonight! whooo-hoo!
Mr. P and I look at each other. The three of them look only a little younger than us. Then, Big Hoss opens up the tool box and reaches in. And pulls out.... a mason jar full of moonshine. Seriously. He hands it to the woman, who takes a swig, sucks her breath in loudly and then waves her hands in front of her like she's trying to dry just-painted fingernails. We decide we need to get out of there before any of them joins us on the road.
Thank you for playing, no really, there's a reason why that stereotype exists.