I turned, and the old man continued: “Can I have your cart?” He pointed to his foot, in a cast, and I walked the cart over to him.
I smiled; he smiled. Then he hobbled into Harris Teeter leaning on the cart.
As I was pulling out of my parking spot, I noticed this plastered across the back of his van in HUGE letters:
KISS MY A$$ AMERICA.
As Doc Watson used to sing, “Life gets teejus, don’t it?”