I’m in Missouri, or as they like to call it here, Missour-ah. I will be in Missour-ah until Labor Day weekend for a trial. Don’t be jealous, it’s not attractive. I’m actually not only in Missour-ah, but I’m in one of the deepest darkest corners of the “Show Me” State (Show me what? I have no idea because in all honesty, there’s NOTHING here I want to see).
For some reason, everyone keeps asking if I’m from New York, even though I’ve tried my gosh golly darndest to be as sweet and nice as peach pie. I haven’t lost my temper once and I haven’t even rushed anyone to move faster than their regular speed of neutral bordering on reverse.
Scenes from My Cousin Vinny keep flashing across my mind, and I live in constant fear while I drive with the radio on and the windows down that some state trooper is going to pull me over, confiscate my CD, chuck me under the chin with my driver’s license and tell me “there’s no dancin’ in these here parts. Preacher don’t allow it.”
Some older gentleman near the courthouse leaned in real close yesterday, leering and asked, after winking at me, whether I was Indian. I wasn’t sure if he meant dots or feathers, but I just skee-dadled away from him as fast as my stilettos allowed.
Being of Middle Eastern descent, I contemplated lying and telling everyone I was I-talian before coming here. But something about lying about my background bothers me. This is still America, after all. So I lied and told him I was Israeli, close enough, but not as inflammatory as the real deal. He made some weird ooooo-ing sound and has left me alone since.
Missour-ah is not that bad. Everybody is real friendly, and the truck to person ratio is about 3 to 1. I’m off to decide which fine dining establishment I want to eat at tonight, this will probably be my hardest decision of the day. Hhhhmmm, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse…..Fuck it, I’ll splurge and order pizza. Can’t go wrong with pizza. It’s like sex, even when it’s bad, it’s still kinda good.