Last week, I pulled into a southern New Hampshire convenience store (well, a parking space, not the store itself) for a quick soda. As I stopped, I noticed an elderly woman in the passenger seat in the car next to me rubbing a scratch ticket. And as I got out, she tore the presumably losing ticket in half and tossed the pieces out the window, landing at my feet.
I glared at her, picked them up without a word, took them all of three steps to a trash can, and tossed them away.
As I gave her one final glare, the old bat looked a smidgen bashful. “Thank you,” she called.
“You’re not welcome.”
As she was driven off, I noticed the car had Massachusetts plates.
Gee, what a surprise.