Don't Talk to Strangers
This morning, I stepped into the elevator at work and a man was already inside. He was dressed in “corporate cowboy” attire: button-down shirt, jeans so new they’re actually blue and the crease is sharp enough to cut something, cowboy hat, and cowboy boots that desperately need to be broken in. He looked me up and down and said, “You’re not dressed for Stampede.”
I shook my head, smiled, looked him up and down, and remarked, “All you’re missing is the belt buckle that can deflect bullets.”
He reached down, lifted his overhanging belly, and said, “No, I’m not.”
Oy-vey. Why me?