Space Alien
I am not one of these people.
And here, I'm not even talking about the people with the cheese-shaped foam hats who strip naked and paint their bodies green on game day. No, I'm talking about the real Wisconsinites, people who have been here for gerations. They're the good, hearty, salt-of-the-earth men and women who make up the stoic, reliable backbone of the state. These are descendents of sturdy frontier folk, people with good respectable monosyllabic names like Bob or Pat or Barb, the kind of people Garrison Keillor talks about. These are the people you want on your side after the Apocalypse, because they'll know how to fix your roof and hotwire your car, and in a pinch they'd probably teach you how to churn your own butter.
I'm not really kidding about this. I was supposed to have a late afternoon meeting with a coworker a few months back that he had to cancel because he and his wife -- pardon me, his little woman, Barb -- had to go help can vegetables at church.
There's a rhythm to life in this place that other people can sense, and it's so much a part of their identity that it doesn't occur to them that someone else might not feel it intuitively.
Snow tires, for instance. Apparently, you need snow tires to drive in the snow. I did not know this. I learned to drive in the weatherless paradise that is California. Who knew there are special tires for the snow? They are so clever nowadays.
So when this second snowfall of the season blanketed the streets with a layer of fluffy white death and caused my car to do a tiny, slow-motion pirouette into a minor intersection during my drive home, I decided that snow tires might be a good thing.
The mechanic on the phone said there isn't a snow tire to be had, because all the normal people bought their tires a month ago. (Who knew? So clever.) Luckily, being the friendly, giving, midwestern type, he said he could order me some. What size would I need?
Tires come in sizes?
Sure. [You moron.] What's the make and model of your car?
96 Honda Accord.
Oh, you probably have 195-60-15s, or maybe 205-60-15s.
What?
Do you have steel or alloy wheels? [Are you from Mars?]
They're.... shiny? [I am from Mars! Help me! I am going to die out here on the tundra!]
Why don't you just come in? [You are so fucked. You're going to die, out here on the tundra.]
And here, I'm not even talking about the people with the cheese-shaped foam hats who strip naked and paint their bodies green on game day. No, I'm talking about the real Wisconsinites, people who have been here for gerations. They're the good, hearty, salt-of-the-earth men and women who make up the stoic, reliable backbone of the state. These are descendents of sturdy frontier folk, people with good respectable monosyllabic names like Bob or Pat or Barb, the kind of people Garrison Keillor talks about. These are the people you want on your side after the Apocalypse, because they'll know how to fix your roof and hotwire your car, and in a pinch they'd probably teach you how to churn your own butter.
I'm not really kidding about this. I was supposed to have a late afternoon meeting with a coworker a few months back that he had to cancel because he and his wife -- pardon me, his little woman, Barb -- had to go help can vegetables at church.
There's a rhythm to life in this place that other people can sense, and it's so much a part of their identity that it doesn't occur to them that someone else might not feel it intuitively.
Snow tires, for instance. Apparently, you need snow tires to drive in the snow. I did not know this. I learned to drive in the weatherless paradise that is California. Who knew there are special tires for the snow? They are so clever nowadays.
So when this second snowfall of the season blanketed the streets with a layer of fluffy white death and caused my car to do a tiny, slow-motion pirouette into a minor intersection during my drive home, I decided that snow tires might be a good thing.
The mechanic on the phone said there isn't a snow tire to be had, because all the normal people bought their tires a month ago. (Who knew? So clever.) Luckily, being the friendly, giving, midwestern type, he said he could order me some. What size would I need?
Tires come in sizes?
Sure. [You moron.] What's the make and model of your car?
96 Honda Accord.
Oh, you probably have 195-60-15s, or maybe 205-60-15s.
What?
Do you have steel or alloy wheels? [Are you from Mars?]
They're.... shiny? [I am from Mars! Help me! I am going to die out here on the tundra!]
Why don't you just come in? [You are so fucked. You're going to die, out here on the tundra.]
posted by Peter at 12:53 AM
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