I just got back from a trip to beautiful Savannah, Georgia -- truly, a great place to visit if you get the chance -- and, as usual, I saw and heard a few things of note:
1. A sign in front of a church: The son prevents burning.
2. A conversation I had with a young woman in the elevator of our hotel after she noticed the hotel pool when my wife and I got on board on our floor.
Her: Oh, they have a pool here.
Me: Yes, but no hot tub.
Her: I don't like hot tubs. I once got an eye infection in a hot tub.
Me: [Thinking: How the fuck do you get an eye infection in a hot tub?]
Wendy: [Giving me the look that says: Do not fucking ask her how the fuck you get an eye infection in a hot tub. Just don't.]
Her:
Me: [Thinking: Okay, fine, I won't ask. But fuck! Who the fuck says something like that to someone in an elevator that is now pregnant with my wild imagination?]
Wendy: [Giving me the look that says: Don't do it. Don't say anything. Just stand there quietly like most people do in an elevator. Stare at the numbers as they pass by. Look at the glittery wall. You like glittery things, don't you?]
Her: Yeah. They're gross.
Me: [Thinking: Okay, she wants me to ask. I mean, other than blowing drifters underwater, how you can get an eye infection in a hot tub?]
Wendy: [Giving me the look that says: You're an idiot.]
Me: So it sure is humid here.
3. Adult video stores in Georgia also help you detox from that pesky addiction you have to beating off. And then do your taxes, too (click to enlarge...not a euphemism):
4. Paula Deen is pretty much like Jesus in Savannah, except that Jesus is pretty much Jesus in Savannah -- there's a lot of churches in that town -- so maybe Paula is like Elvis. At any rate, she has her own tour, every tourist shop in town sells her stuff (and there are a lot of tourist shop in town...oddly, they have the same crappy t-shirt shops as they have in Palm Springs, which makes me think: who goes out of town and buys a t-shirt that says, you know, Drinking Doesn't Cause Hangovers, Waking Up Does? I mean, at what point on your vacation do you think, oh, yeah, that's a shirt I must have! I can't wait to wear that back home! People will know I had a great time, see, because I got this here t-shirt!) and you gotta know someone to get into her restaurant at peek hours. And by someone, I mean Paula herself. Her restaurant was actually really good. I had the best pecan pie there and some really good fried chicken and then my heart actually fell out of my ass, which was a surprise, but which gave me more room for butter cake, so that was nice.
5. Apparently neither Wendy or I look like locals. Here's a conversation we had at least once a day for an entire week.
Woman at store/restaurant/museum/just walking down the street who somehow felt compelled to speak to us: Where y'all from?
Wendy [she always answered for us in these situations, perhaps because she was afraid I'd come back with, "Why? Do you know me? Who do you work for? Who do you work for! I will fucking kill you!"]: California.
Woman: Y'all on vacation or something?
Wendy [because I would have answered, "No, clearly not. Don't you ride tour buses all day at home, you fucking whore? Who do you work for? Are you following me? I will fucking kill you!"] Yes.
Woman: What part of California?
Wendy [because I would have answered, "Look, I don't know your fucking friend, okay? Just accept that I live nowhere near whoever you know who lives in California, okay?"] Near Los Angeles.
Woman: Really? Wow, that must be neat. You know, they've filmed a bunch of movies here. Y'all ever heard of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil? That was here. Miley Cyrus just made a movie here. You ever see that movie with John Travolta when he was in the army? That was here. Y'all have key-ids?
Wendy: [because I would have said, "What the fuck are key-ids? Is that some sort of blood disease? Do I look sick to you? Is there something in the water here I need to know about? What the fuck is going on here? Why are you asking us so many questions? Who do you work for?!?"] No, no kids, just dogs.
Woman: Well, dogs are like kids, aren't they? Y'all are so cute. You enjoy yourselves here.
Me [after the woman has gone off to ask other people personal questions]: Why is everyone so nice here?
Wendy: It's the south. It's just how everyone is. I told you.
Me: Well, I don't trust them. I mean, what's with everyone asking where we live and if we have kids? You think they're trying to measure us up for a kidnapping?
Wendy: What?
Me: You know, see if we have anyone who would miss us. Find out where we live, you know, sort of gauge our wealth, see if we have any kids with us they'd need to kill, and then, you know, follow us back to the hotel and snatch us.
Wendy:
Me:
Wendy:
Me: You know. That shit happens.
Wendy: In Mexico.
Me: Aren't we on the gulf of Mexico?
Wendy: No.
Me: We aren't?
Wendy: No, we're on the Atlantic. Do I need to draw you a map again?
Me: No, but anyway, pirates do this shit to. I don't trust these people with their "where do you live, do you have kids" rap.
Wendy:
Me:
Wendy:
Me: And grits. What's with all the grits? These people strike me as unusually nice and unusually attracted to grits.
Wendy: You're an idiot.
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