Locals only

In late December I was in Southern Florida, taking a brief respite from the New England chill. One afternoon I was crossing the street with a remarkably beautiful young woman when an old Ford Explorer sped around us. Out of the SUV leaned the biggest broguy I've ever seen. This tasteless connoisseur of all things "heady" proceeded to yell at me: "locals only bro!" After making an instinctual, obscene gesture at their disappearing car I was struck with disbelief and a bout of gut wrenching laughter. For the rest of the holiday I was impossible to deal with, as I would not stop exclaiming "Locals only bro!" even in situations where it was not remotely applicable. If somebody would knock when I was in the bathroom I would respond with a resounding "Locals only Bro!"
Three months later It's spring here in Providence and the green is on the way.
Locals only Bro.

It's in the shop

My car mechanic is a 75+ year old who fished the outer banks when the catch was abundant and the crew still wore oil slickers(rubber raincoats hadn't been invented yet.) Emory is the mechanics name and he had an interesting proposition for me today. While we struggled to loosen my ailing starter Emory strongly recommended that I scrap the idea of higher education and get my embalming license. "Opening a funeral home might seem morbid at first" he said, "but once you get a few bodies out of the way, it's just another job - with slick cars and simple work - there's only so many ways you can cross the arms."