UR PL8 SUX

I fucking hate vanity license plates. My hate is so extreme that I’m dropping the EFF word two words into this post. I’m confident they exist for the sole purpose of making me feel like a confused asshole, demeaning my intellect with their groupings of too many consonants and random numbers, bunched together in ways my eyes and brain can’t comprehend. I’m acutely aware of the fact that I read way too much into EVERYTHING ABOUT LIFE, I don’t need to add something as trivial as license plates to that growing list.

Paging Queen Melon

I feel like my dad has been on a food tour of Arkansas the past few weeks. It’s not unusual for him to wake up on a random morning, call me and say, “Hey Hol, let’s shoot up to Emerson for some purplehull peas and catch the rotary tiller race.” It’s also not unusual for me to respond with, “Let me catch you at the chuck wagon races.” I’ve been. The lemonade is fantastic. I’ve never been able to replicate it. I’m pretty sure they mix theirs with crack. It’s the only reason I can imagine my cheap ass paying $6 per cup and still feeling dehydrated after drinking it.