Signage

Hungry, we stopped at a crossroads diner in an upstate South Carolina burg called Pumpkintown, I kid you not.

The marquis claimed “Best Food in Town” to which Paul, without even walking in the place, quipped, “Exchange the adjective for ‘only’ and it’s probably more accurate.”

Inside, we sat at a wobbly table on a creaky, wood-planked floor next to a woman who smoked incessantly. (“Is that even legal?” Paul again. “I mean, really. Can she do that?”)

While we waited for barbecue (Paul: “Is it red sauce or yellow?” Server of indeterminate gender: “Yes”), a BLT, and onion rings, we observed this sign above the register, its plastic letters yellowed with cigarette smoke and age:

OPL FTERS

I MAY NOT SEE

YOU BUT GOD DOES

IF I DON’T GET TO

PROSECUTE YOU HE WILL

APOLOGIES TO THOSE WHO

ARE HONEST AND CARING