I stopped by the post office on the way home today. I bought:
| 40 of these:
|
10 of these:
|
20 of these:
|
I love stamps and everything they stand for.
I find it more than a little amusing that they put those lines through the amount on the JPGs of the stamps, presumably so cheap-ass people can’t download them, and print them with their color printers on an envelope.
Also, it bugs me just a tad that sometimes the line through the amount slants to the left and sometimes to the right. However, I’m going to “let it go,” because, according to Ralph Waldo Emerson, “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”
From the post office on Highway 54, I took Airport Boulevard back to I-40. Just before the I-40 junction, I passed the somewhat new Hooters restaurant, which is set pretty far back off the road.
Right down by the road, however, was a gaggle of girls in tight, exceedingly short, orange pants and tight white tops. I don’t know what they were doing there. There were about 10 of them, standing around a guy in a white shirt, and maybe a tie. Perhaps their manager? At first I thought they were either going to start waving signs to try and get desperately lonely men to turn in, and then I thought, “Maybe a photo shoot of some sort.”
The guy in the car in front of me slammed on his breaks, and took his next right. Had a sudden yearning for wings, I presume.
A straight man’s dream, I suppose: A sidewalk full of T and A, if you will.