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I'm driving towards the freeway. In an old beat-up car in the left lane, but to the front of me, are two of the meanest, baddest looking guys I have seen for a long time. They have their windows rolled down, probably to avoid having the windows shattered by the loud thumping music that echoes from the car's interior. Flexing their muscular and heavily tattooed arms, the two young men stare out at the world with intense hatred. My eyes drift down to their license plate frame. It says, "Partylite - Do You Love Candles?"
I bust out laughing. When I pull up next to them, I resist the urge to yell, "Hey! Do you guys have any lavender-scented candles? I need some for the doilies on my end tables," and, "How about peach? That would go really great with the curtains in our guest bathroom." Instead I turn my head away from them and suppress my giggles. I don't want to make them mad. They might drive me off the road and force me, at gunpoint, to buy a box of candles. That would be robbery, but then, based on the checks I've seen my wife write for candle parties, it's always robbery. Talk about organized crime… All this is based on the assumption that the license plate frame belongs to the guys in the car. Maybe they stole the car, or it could belong to one of their girlfriends. But wouldn't that be great if they really were selling candles? It could happen, maybe, if drugs were legalized. Gangs would turn to selling Tupperware and candles because of the extreme profit margin. "Yo dawg, wassup? "Hey man, I got some fine product here." "You messin? Like what?" "Cucumber, bro. The subtle fragrance of cucumber candles." "Sweet. Gotta get me a piece of that." "Right on... Tell your homies." What if one of the above-mentioned thugs met a girl named Maria who sold a rival product line, dooming their love before it ever began and leading to a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions? I can see it now, performed live, on stage: the Westside Wicks versus "The Tupps." They'd do amazing dance moves, waving lighted candles in each other's faces and snapping Tupperware lids to demonstrate that airtight grip: "When you're a Wick, You're a Wick all the way, From your first candle sale To your last day of pay." Enter the Scrappers. You may not want to scrap with them, but you might not have a choice. If they don't get booked by the police, then you might get booked by them. That's right; with their paper cutters and their fancy backings, these hoodlums take scrapbooking to a whole new level. Truly a sales force to be reckoned with... The light changes, and I return to reality. I can't resist. I turn to the guys in the car beside me and yell, "See ya girls!" Then I peel out and zip down the freeway onramp. Several seconds later, I check my rearview mirror. There's no one there. Whew. Maybe they thought twice about messing with me. After all, I'm crazy. Plus, I've got a trunk full of fabric paints, and I'm not afraid to use 'em. |
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