I used to be proud of my shirts, at their power over human emotion. I had shirts that made men angry, shirts that made women smile, shirts that made children run away in fear.(Actually, that’s what kids do when I don’t wear a shirt. I really should get that looked at by a doctor or an exorcist.)
Last night, I went to fill my wife’s car up with gas (one of the many services I provide her, along with raising her kids, and beating off potential suitors with a frying pan). In front of me was a taxi driver, filling up his yellow Ford.
“What is that, a Celica?” he said.“It’s a Matrix.”
He asked how old it was. He asked how it handled. He complained about his car. He asked how long I’d lived in the San Francisco Bay Area.Then things got weird.
“You know what a trust is?” he said.It seems his parents were living in his house in Illinois, which was his by trust fund. They wouldn’t leave. He was concerned about some kind of fraud, but his parents wouldn’t forward his mail.
“That’s how they get you!” he said, his eyes taking on a mad gleam. Luckily, the Toyota Matrix doesn’t have a big tank, and might be psychic; it chose that moment to stop accepting gas. I beat a hasty retreat.
Man this shirt is totally not working! Nor is this face.
|"You read my t-shirt. That's enough social interaction for one day."|