What's the Frequency, Kenneth?

I was hoping that this post would be a little more sentimental, but that's life in Jersey. A few months ago, I was informed that child car seats are not permitted in Jeep Wranglers, and to make sure that somebody like me doesn't put one in anyway, Chrysler doesn't put the seat anchors in, as permitted by the NTSB. So, I've had to buy a new car.

I took Baby out this evening to break the news. I felt a little bit like the time we had to take Duke to the vet one last time. I used the "It's not you, it's me" speech, but it wasn't too bad. Baby had noticed my wandering eye, and knew it was only a matter of time. I had brought my new camera to take some last photos of Baby before I sent her off to the knackers.

Baby wanted to know about the other car, but I refused to discuss Pepper, the sleek German model I was about to make it official with. Nothing positive would come from that conversation. We laughed, and we cried, and then it was time to take the photos.
Here's where it all became a little surreal: I got one shot off, when a rather irate individual came up and asked what I was taking photos of. I told him, and then he told me I should have asked his permission first and demanded to see the photo. I showed him -
As you can see, he is nowhere in the photo. He was clearly agitated about something, and accused me of trying to take his photo for a website he called "Babyfuckers of Czechoslovakia". I could have been an asshole and asked him if he was indeed a babyfucker, but the situation was escalating well enough on its own, so I went the other way with the more intelligent "That's unusual, you don't sound Czech". I reminded him that I was in a public place and that I was entitled to take photos of anything I could see. Quizzically, he told me that we were not in Russia, and that he had the right to walk in the street without his photograph being taken. At this point, it occurred to me that he was a pedophile, because obviously only a person who is a babyfucker would think that that is what the general public thought of them. In any event, he was definitely somebody who had been to prison. A police car drove by and rather than flag it down and tell them that his rights were being violated, he turned away so they wouldn't see his face. He continued to goad me until I finally told him that if he had a problem, he should speak to Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. I reached in through the passenger window and opened my glovebox. A bluff, of course. He didn't know what to do with himself so he threatened to take down my plate. I welcomed his enthusiasm. He did nothing in the end, but as he walked off I snapped a photo of his out of state plate. In Jersey, you never know.

Bye Bye Baby.