Just 'cause I never did shit for my country doesn't mean I don't like being thanked
The scene: the ChickWagon, around 4PM Christmas Day. I am on my way to a screening of Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and, because I live in San Antonio where it is 68 degrees out in late December, I have my passenger-side window open.
The action: a navy blue late-model family sedan – a Caddy, I'm pretty sure – pulls up alongside me. It is piloted by a dead ringer for Philip Seymour Hoffman, and is crowded with besuited middle-aged men and what I presume are their elderly mothers. The rear passenger window goes down and one of the ancient women calls out to me.
OLD LADY: "Thank you!"
ME: "Uh…you're welcome."
(Awkward pause.)
OLD LADY: "Aren't you wearing fatigues?"
ME: (Looks at Marc Ecko hoodie, which features a camo pattern) "Oh! I see. No, it's just a jacket."
OLD LADY: "Oh."
ME: "Sorry."
OLD LADY: "Well, Merry Christmas!"
ME: "Merry Christmas to you, too!"
- fin -
The action: a navy blue late-model family sedan – a Caddy, I'm pretty sure – pulls up alongside me. It is piloted by a dead ringer for Philip Seymour Hoffman, and is crowded with besuited middle-aged men and what I presume are their elderly mothers. The rear passenger window goes down and one of the ancient women calls out to me.
OLD LADY: "Thank you!"
ME: "Uh…you're welcome."
(Awkward pause.)
OLD LADY: "Aren't you wearing fatigues?"
ME: (Looks at Marc Ecko hoodie, which features a camo pattern) "Oh! I see. No, it's just a jacket."
OLD LADY: "Oh."
ME: "Sorry."
OLD LADY: "Well, Merry Christmas!"
ME: "Merry Christmas to you, too!"
- fin -