This morning, we hit the road in our ‘97 Dodge Stratus to travel (with a giant plume of smoke behind us) from Texarkana to an incredible American city where I’ve always wanted to spend the holidays - Branson, Missouri. Branson basically what you’d get if you multiplied Gatlinburg by Pigeon Forge and then added Cherokee, North Carolina. So in other words, a must-see destination if you are an American, or even for someone from abroad traveling in America.
The trip up there was largely drama free. We stopped at a rest stop near the Arkansas-Missouri line where I had a testy exchange with some Missouri fans, who evidently are a little sensitive about you saying that “Lamar Odom” is their coach. But we made it to Branson, and I will able to do a little pre-dinner shopping and purchase an incredible custom-made leather belt with an attached leather cell phone holder with “Class of ‘97” emblazoned on them.
We were able to cap the night off with a formal Christmas Eve dinner at Longhorn, and we left there to go to the Dixie Stampede parking lot to close a deal on 25 pairs of counterfeit Oakleys. We were running a few minutes behind, and on the way there, we got behind this bicyclist who was in the middle of the lane and going painfully slow. My offensive assistant who is on probation for selling counterfeit Oakleys (and not allowed to operate a motor vehicle) was driving, and tried honking, flashing his high beams, and yelling obscenities. At that point, my offensive assistant had no choice but to use the Dodge Stratus to easily nudge the bicyclist off to the side of the road and into the ditch. Otherwise, we were going to miss out on the deal. The nudge was so slight that the cyclist didn’t fall off his bike, nor were he or his bicycle harmed. I even rolled down the window to wish him a Happy Christmas as we rolled past. And how did that a-hole respond to my olive branch? By flipping me off and telling me to go to hell.