Excuse me for a second.
Alright, God. I get the message. You can stop now. Really. Knock it off. I've had enough.
Sorry. Just had to have a little face time with the Almighty.
Why? Because he's screwing with my brain.
It wasn't enough that he put two car loads of horned-up bachelorettes in my path today. That wasn't enough for God. God had to push things a little further.
So while I was on my way to get a haircut today, he did this:
He sent me west on Bloomingdale Boulevard this afternoon and put in my path a half-naked, beer-swilling guy on horseback trotting along the sidewalk going eastbound with plastic bags full of groceries hanging off his saddle horn. This bizarre image just about sent me into oncoming traffic, my neck spun so fast.
I did a U-turn, pulled over and parked, waiting until the guy came up to my car.
I stopped him and his horse. His name was Mark. His horse, a 3-year-old Paint, was named Dakota.
Come to find out that he's a former bull rider who now does construction. When I went whipping by him in traffic, he had a longneck Bud tossed back at about an 85-degree angle. By the time I had pulled over, the Bud was hidden behind the saddlehorn under his unworn shirt.
"Twel hunnerd poun.''
"Wha?" I replied.
"Twel hunner poun was the biggess bull I rode."
I mean, what was I supposed to say? Well done? That's a lot of angry jumping meat? That certainly explains this Fellini-esque mirage I've just seen?
Turns out he takes the horse for a ride from his home pasture to Lithia Springs park every weekend. Which is, you know, a round trip ride of about 25 miles. That's a long mosey for the horse. Especially with a drunk, half-naked cowboy on your back. And all his groceries for the week.
He said his goodbyes and I climbed back in the car. I took a moment to drink in what I'd just experienced. I slid the shifter into drive and pulled back on the road.
I did a U-turn to go back toward the barber shop when I see something even more bizarre: John Wayne, inebriated and woozy, bent over the side of the horse, checking out cars for sale in a makeshift lot.
Now, my father was in the car business. Sold them at an Oldsmobile dealership, sold them at his own lot, sold them at discount auctions. He saw lots of weird shit. Lots of weird shit.
I don't think I recall him ever coming home and telling us that some drunk on horseback was in the market for a Delta 88. How would you even write up the paperwork on a trade like that?