I thought at the time I had the worst luck in the world.
There I was, standing on the shoulder of an interstate somewhere in Western Pennsylvania, eighteen wheelers rumbling by as I stared at my 1982 Toyota Celica. I'd opened the hood to see if I could figure out what was wrong, but had no clue. A few minutes earlier it started making a worrisome thumping sound and then stalled out. I was barely able to maneuver my way onto the shoulder safely.
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Let's start out with a joke this time, to evoke a light-hearted mood.
The guy goes to the check-out counter of the supermarket with a salad for one, a pre-wrapped sandwich, and one can of soda.
The cute young clerk eyes his purchase and says to him, "You're single?" The customer grins and nods his head. "You can tell by my meal, huh?"
And the girl says, "No, you're fuckin' ugly."
It was that round, tight, perfectly sculptured bubble ass that caught my eye in aisle six of the Food Lion in Fairfax, Virginia.
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Christian sat in the back of the class, his eyes glued to the back of his teacher's skirt. She wasn't really his teacher, just a substitute. Every once in a while one of his normal teachers would be out sick, or take a personal day, and nine times out of ten he'd walk into the classroom and there would be Miss Anderson. Sometimes one of his buddies would have her in an early class, and they'd let him know at lunch what he would be looking forward to.
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