Sorry about the lack of an entry yesterday, but the plant where I work is gearing up for ISO recertification and I was stuck doing a few internal audits yesterday, and blah blah blah snore.

So yesterday, I had the most horrifying experience of my adult life. I was driving down Route 202, a six-lane highway, lined on both sides with strip malls, franchise restaurants, and banks, early yesterday evening returning from running some errands. No biggie; I just had to buy some new golf cleats, and some golf balls.

I also stopped off to have dinner in one of those franchise restaurants and before you say it, yes, I realize those places are not Kosher for Passover. But I only got a salad (sans croutons) and a baked potato, so I think it’s really the spirit of the law that counts.

Oh, who am I trying to kid? I’m the guy that rationalized thin crust pizza as being non-leavened and therefore acceptable to eat during Passover freshman year in college.

But I digress. I’m driving home in my Blazer (no I am not showing off. It’s an important detail. Why? Trust me. No? Where’s the love? Okay, fine. It’s important because in an SUV one sits higher than one does in a regular car. Happy? Jeez.) happy as a clam with my new golf cleats and package of 18 golf balls for the low, low price of $9.99.

As I come to a stop at a red light, I look at the piece of shit Chevy Nova next to me, half brown, and half Bondo, with a mismatched front quarter-panel and I happen to notice that the passenger, a Hispanic male approximately late thirties, early forties, was perusing a Playboy.

How could you tell? I hear all of you ask.

Well, when you happen to see a full page spread of a naked woman lying on a bed in tasteful, yet erotic lighting, your mind thinks, “Hey. Cool. Playboy.” And if said picture of a woman also contained a man, your mind would then think, “Hey. Cool. Hustler.”

Then I notice that the driver, also Hispanic, also late thirties, early forties, was looking at the magazine. No, not at the magazine. The magazine was tilted toward the window. Toward me. What’s he looking…?

During that microsecond of infinity, I then saw that the driver’s eyes were directed toward the passenger’s crotchal region, and then noticed that the passenger’s other hand, the hand not holding the magazine, was going for the speed record in outdoor, vehicular masturbation.

The electrical impulses fleeing from my eyes, leaving me momentarily blind, raced towards my mouth, the influx of electrical, neurological energy causing my face to contort in the classic “bitter beer” pose, as both passenger and driver noticed my intrusion, and immediately covered up, staring straight ahead, trying to will time to travel backwards and erase this moment from history.

Now I know the chill that passed through Dudley’s spine after Arnold left him to get molested on “Diff’rent Strokes” - that pure, unadulterated, “bad touch” feeling of shame, regret, and disgust.

I can just imagine how that conversation went down:

“Hey, Jorge. Look what I bought during lunch.”
“What, is that the new Playboy, Paco?”
“It sure is.”
“Any naked men?”
“Er. No.”
“Oh. You should have bought Hustler.”
“Anyway. Look at Miss May’s huge knockers. I can’t wait until I get home so I can stroke it.”
“Hmm? Say, Paco, why not just stroke it right here?”
“Dude. I’m not gay.”
“Well, neither am I.”
“Um. I don’t know.”
“Dude, just go ahead. I won’t look. I’m driving. How can I look when my eyes need to be facing front in order to operate this piece of shit hooptie?”
“Good point.”
Zzzippp.
“Yeah. Look at you, Miss May.”
“Yeah. Look at you, Miss Paco.”
“What?”
“Hmm? I didn’t say anything.”

Look, what goes on between a man, another man, and his magazine in the privacy of their home is none of my business. Just keep it off the road; that’s all I’m saying.

But I don’t blame them.

I blame Daylight Savings Time.

Had this been 6:30 pm on a Tuesday evening, in, say, January, their actions would have been safely concealed in the veil of darkness. Ah, ignorant darkness.

This extra hour of light is KILLING me!

READ THESE JOURNALS Uncle Bob SaraH

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