The sign quite clearly says “Po-Boy Times Parking Only” but you’re pretty sure you can get away with scarfing down your ham and cheese hoagie without anyone noticing.
Before you’ve even fully chewed your second bite, though, there’s a sudden knock on your driver window that nearly causes you to spit chunks of cheddar and bread onto your dashboard. You jerk your head to the left so quickly it hurts and, much to your chagrin, lay eyes upon a police officer clad in green and yellow.
It’s a po-boy police officer, a po-po-boy if you will, and he looks none too happy to see you snacking on your simple sandwich. He gestures for you to roll down your window.
“What seems to be the problem, officer?” you ask politely and guiltily.
The sandwich cop spits out a huge load of tobacco juice onto the concrete, then points at the parking sign in front of you. “What’s that there say, boy?” he asks.
You read the sign to him ver batim.
“That’s right,” he says. “…and what’s that in your hand? That a po-boy, boy?”
“Um…no, sir,” you reply, your eyes downcast.
“I thought not. What would possess you to snack on a sammich like that in a spot clearly marked for po-boy times? You some kinda rebel, boy?”
“Good. I don’t like rebels, boy. Rebels give me indigestion, and when I gets the indigestion, I can’t enjoy my po-boy in the lawfully marked po-boy parking spaces I like to frequent. Now, best get a move on, boy. And don’t let me catch you in my city eatin’ no subs, hoagies, grinders, or anything of the like ‘cept a poboy, else we’ll have a problem. You pickin’ up what I’m layin’ down, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” you say doing your best not to roll your eyes, and drive off.
The south is weird.