It must be because of recent anti-North Korean sentiment that I am getting longer-than-usual stares from people.

I met Kerry at the B&R for what simply must be considered the most inconvenient breakfast I ever had the displeasure of scarfing down so that I could leave. Drive through some half-flooded roads out to a dilapidated shithole town filled with truckers in their Sunday best. Get caught behind dumbasses who are too busy scolding their squealing demon seed in the backseat to drive properly. Spot a confederate flag or two hanging on a porch. This is what I endured on my drive there.

Some old dude looking like Freud in a bad Mr. Rogers sweater was staring at me. His haggard wife was shaking her head in exasperation over her clasped hands while she waited for her tea. I stared right back, but he wouldn't shake.

"He keeps staring at me. Why? What the fuck?" I am talking to Kerry but looking right at this douche, and am making sure to enunciate emphatically--yah, read my lips, FUCKO. He eventually raises his eyebrows over his closed eyes and disdainfully turns to his wife to whisper something.

Then he got hit by a semi skidding on the icy road, plowing through the building's left side and squashing him, and you couldn't tell the ketchuped fried eggs from his splattered brain on his plate. Amazingly, no one else was injured by this horriffic accident, just Mr. Dead Guy Who Got Quickly Cured Of His Staring Problem.