https://lybrandt.com/93345-ivermectin-in-chickens-australia-87944/ I’ve been known to unintentionally voice some obnoxious thoughts at extremely unfortunate times. Until this morning I thought I’d kicked that particular habit. But apparently not.
undyingly go fish casino I had a court appearance scheduled in an unfamiliar rural county a long ways from metro Atlanta. By the time I arrived at the far flung county seat, my car was low on gas. On the drive home, my fuel gauge read empty when I finally spotted a gas station.
Tanggulangin soolantra price usa I pulled in at a pump next to a much-abused pickup truck from which a Confederate Flag proudly flew. Though I didn’t see the vehicle’s owner, as I stepped from the car my mind nonetheless jumped to an uncharitable — and admittedly stereotyped — conclusion: wish upon a jackpot unostentatiously Who’s the inbred hillbilly flying the Confederate Flag? And doesn’t he know the Civil War’s over and the South lost? https://casadoviolao.com/16-cat/casino_45.html
Rūdarpur namoro isis valverde One moment later, before my hand could reach the gas pump, two large heavily-muscled men stood up from behind the pickup. Neither gentleman particularly resembled a hillbilly as I imagined one; nor could I spot any obvious sign of a too-close relationship amongst their parents.
I was about to silently offer thanks for not insulting them aloud when one of the men spoke: “Mr., do you always go around offending strangers, or is this just our lucky day?” The guy’s voice may’ve carried a southern accent, but he certainly didn’t sound like an illiterate yokel. What he did sound like, however, was one supremely pissed individual.
Meanwhile, the other man didn’t say a word. He simply stared at me. Frankly, I found his silent menace more unnerving.
I felt bad, since I’d never meant to voice my anthropological observations. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve offered to buy the men a conciliatory fruit basket. Yet a single glance at the brooding pair convinced me that circumstances were anything but normal. Not wishing to overstay my welcome, I
tossed off a quick “sorry,” hopped into my car and peeled out of the parking lot. I heard the second guy belatedly open his mouth as I drove off, yelling at my retreating vehicle: “Down here we call it the ‘War of Northern Aggression.’”
Needless to say, I had no chance to get gas before my hasty exodus. I instead filled the tank at a station one town over … a couple of hours later, after the tow truck finally arrived.
Long live the Confederacy?