SCRATCHING AN ITCH

I was driving across the Florida panhandle on Memorial Day weekend, and feeling extremely fatigued.  It had been a very long day, and the sun was beginning to go down.  I can drive long distances all day every day, but when the sun goes down so do my eyelids.  So I got off Interstate 10 when I saw a Love's truck stop.

One step out of the car and I could tell my left leg had fallen asleep.  I stomped on it to try to wake it up, and then I half limped over to the gas pump so I could fill the tank of this gas guzzling SUV.  Once I had topped it off completely, I went inside to answer the call of nature.  And that is when I realized I had a pounding headache starting, and it was a doozy.

There were very few people in the truck stop at this point of the evening, and I walked around freely without bumping into anyone.  I had a little bit of trouble finding the medication aisle, and when I finally discovered the BC headache powders they were in a remote corner of the store.  I stood alone and looked for the BC pack I wanted, and my butt itched so without even thinking I reached back and scratched it -- with my hands on the outside of my pants, naturally.

"How dare you!" screamed a woman, and I spun around quite startled to see this woman who seemingly came out of nowhere.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What you need to be begging for is my forgiveness.  How could you be so crass and crude?  Just because you had to itch that scratch on your big fat buns like a redneck neanderthal caveman."

I shook my head, confused.  "Itch that scratch?  I'm sorry ma'am, I didn't know anyone was around."

"And that's your excuse?  No one was watching so it's OK to display disgusting, nauseating behavior that would make a child scream with terror?"

I looked all around.  "What child?"

"Don't change the subject.  You have defiled my sense of morality, and I feel abused and traumatized.  So I hope you are proud of yourself."

"I assure you I am not."

"Well you shouldn't be.  I mean, why didn't you just pull down your pants so everyone could see your birthday suit while you were scratching?  Why didn't you just walk around swinging your weiner like a helicopter propeller?"

"I...I..."  Truth is, I didn't know what to say.

"You are a nasty, filthy man.  I advise you go home tonight and drop to your knees and pray that the good Lord will forgive you-- though I seriously doubt that He will."  She stormed off still spitting out hateful things, and I really didn't know how to feel.  I try to be nice to everyone and never wish to offend anyone.  But this woman seemed just a tad extreme.