When I went to look at the truck, the first thing I noticed was the owner's dog running off-leash right in front of my moving car—always a sign of a devoted animal lover. I knocked right above the enormous pro-fish Christian symbol thingie actually carved into the house's front door. The door opened, revealing that the owner was an old white fart. Ah. It all makes sense now. We talked, and he said he was selling off some belongings in order to buy one of them infernal sailboats that are constantly requiring me to change course. During my test drive, I listened to someone like Rush Limbaugh who wasn't Rush Limbaugh but clearly wanted to be. I don't know. They all sound alike to me. I hit the radio buttons, only to find talk radio and Christian stations. After I paid for the car, he followed me to my house, up Metamuville Road. Speed limit: 55. Speed at which he hopelessly fell back: 45.
It was a remarkable convergence of irritating traits. If only he'd knock up one of my friends while wearing his ponytail through a "USC: Back-to-Back National Champions" cap, we'd have perfection.