Yesterday morning I saw a little yellow Ford Pinto cruising through the neighborhood and I found it quite charming. The fellow in the driver’s seat had his window open to the sunny morning air and he was fifty-something with curly hair and a colorful beanie to keep his ears warm.

Every aspect of this picture filled me with the kind of warmth a mug of hot cocoa or a dollop of honey would do.

As I passed by, I was shocked to see that his entire back seat was stocked full of toilet paper. This collection was freshly bought, in the wrappers, brand spanking new toilet paper piled from floor to ceiling in the back half of his zippy little car.

I’m still thinking about it. The juxtaposition perhaps. Such a charming car and fellow on a sunny morning with a panic stricken mass purchase.

I can imagine him in the zombie apocalypse, smiling and humming to himself as he drives through a city of the walking dead with his recent mass purchases from the top floor market that’s been sanctioned as a zombie free zone. Just heading home to his tree fort where he has a sniper rifle set up and ready should anyone get to sniffing around.

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