Before I get started, I want to send out regards and thanks to Typhonius, who contributed greatly to our discussion of women's masturbation. Tally ho, good man!
This past weekend I visited the Mecca of I-95, South of the Border. Located about 20 ft south of the North Carolina/South Carolina border is this lovely haven. Anyone who has traveled I-95 is familiar with the cheesy signs with bad puns, like "bedrock weather forecast, chili today, hot tamale." It just doesn't get any better than that, now does it? In a recent newspaper article, the operators of SOB, as it is called (and I don't feel like typing that long shit everything), said they have changed some of the signs on the interstate to make them more politically correct. No more "joust" and shit like that. Some whine shit complained that it might offend somebody who isn't supposed to be here in the first place. Typical. And you know that this same whiny ass was once 8 years old, sitting in the backseat of dad's Caprice and laughing their ass off reading those signs on vacation.
SOB is a landmark of sorts, a tribute to tackiness. It's a small complex of shops, restaurants, a motel ("Pedro has waterbeds" was on a sign behind the counter), arcades, rides, and of course, fireworks shops. This place was a theme park before there was such an animal.
As you would expect, it's gone downhill a bit over the years. The staff looked suicidal, the floors dirty, and the clientele seemed a little skankier than usual. For example, I pulled into the parking lot to find about 8-10 of my funky soul brothers, standing outside the Africa Shop (insert your own joke here), lighting fireworks they had purchased a few minutes earlier. These guys were about 4 feet from somebody's car, lighting explosives with glee. You'd think they never saw a bottle rocket before!
On the whole, I came away from it thinking that SOB is more of a punchline to a bad joke, but's it's also like a train wreck. You don't want to look, but you just can't help it.