So you can imagine what the road looks like that goes there — you get off the toll road, which itself is all the way out where Jesus lost his shoes, then you get on a nice four-lane road, then you turn onto a little windy mountain two-lane road…

…and Genius Girl ahead of me is going Nine. Miles. An. Hour. In a BMW, in the middle of a place where the official vehicle is the large pickup truck, American by God. Stopping to point at EVERYTHING. Horses. Cattle. Ducks. A rattlesnake on the side of the road.

All I wanted to do was to get to the Canyon store to buy a bottle of water… so they pull into the store’s parking lot — and stop, blocking the entrance.

“Hey, can you move in to the lot?”

“What?”

“You’re blocking the driveway, can you park please?”

“Whatever.”

So Rick, the store owner — stereotypical Western guy, six foot whatever tall, huge belt buckle, lean, mean, handlebar mustache, shirt tucked into dungarees — comes over.

“Where you folks from?”

“Dana Point.” (A really, really, snobby part of south coastal Orange County, where the cheapest home is millions of dollars)

“Well, I don’t know how it works in Dana Point, but here in Silverado we’re nice to our neighbors and we don’t block the driveway like inconsiderate assholes.”

“God, SORRY.”

So they move in, park, and when I come out of the store, they are STARING AT THE GROUND.

“Um, are you OK?”

“Huh?”

“Are you OK? You’re really out of it — you’re not high, are you? Because you’ll kill yourselves or someone else back here if you are.”

“High? WHAT-ever. We’re looking at this thing. What is it?”

“It’s a scorpion.”

“OH MY GOD IT’S A SCORPION AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

“Jeez, it’s just a little one.” I stomp on it, helpfully.

“But they’re poisonous!”

“So are wasps, what’s your point?”

“I think we’re going to go home… this is too 909 for me.”

Assholes. Total assholes. I need to be allowed to have tactical missiles mounted on my car.