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A few years ago I took a trip with my wife’s family to Owen’s Crossroads, Alabama.  Owen’s Croassroads is not a town, it’s not a place, it’s not anything, really.  Since the trip was under the aegis, I guess,  of my wife’s family, the trip was conducted by thier rules.  Well not rules, but rather rule – singular -  which is this:  get on the interstate and drive fast and never ever stop except for gas and piss.  This wouldn’t be a bad rule except nobody in her family can drive worth a shit and, worse, the trip was executed in a badly overloaded Chevy Suburban with defective steering.  I should add to the narrative that no one save my wife and I would amit that the defect even existed.  First time my wife, Christine, got behind the wheel, we hadn’t gone fifty feet before she said, “What the hell is wrong with this car?  There’s like a half-turn of slop in the steering.”  And that’s almost no bullshit.  It was about a quarter-turn.  But, fuck, man – that’s scary as chest pain.  A quarter turn of the wheel and no course correction?  It was like driving a car in a dream where brake pedals turn to cake.

Alright, anyway.  The car was dog balls.

Somewhere in Missippi – Poplarville, I think – I campaigned for, and received, a full stop-and-eat.  The compromise was that we ate a Burger King.  I ate little and decided to step outside and see what Poplarville was all about.  In the parking lot, two teenagers with Down syndrome necked and dry-humped furiously in a Buick Skylark.  When they were done, they put thier Burger King hats back on and came inside the restaurant to work.

Out behind the Burger King was a creek and a abandoned car.

Have it your way, here, at the Artmound.

Have it Your Way.