So, I wound up eating lunch at a butcher shop today. Our table was maybe 30 feet away from a blood-covered guy hacking away at a pig carcass, an image that is the perfect accompaniment to the smell of raw meat while you try to choke down a turkey sandwich. I didn’t touch the fries, since I sat there and watched the teenage deli manager look around for a pair of tongs, scratch his head, and then scoop them up out of the “grease-less frier” with his bare hands.
Kind of makes you want to go outside and French kiss the dirty sidewalks of your fancy urban city, DOESN’T IT?
And just in case this story has not meandered far enough down Hillbilly Lane for your liking, you should know that one person in my group came home with a brown lunch bag full of deer meat.
It’s getting harder and harder to remember what it was like living more than just a banjo solo away from Deliverance.