Beaver Time

Ok, so mark this one under random small-town occurences of smuttiness. On the drive back from New York this January my friends and I were hungover, bloated from far too much Italian food and in need of fuel to get us back to good 'ol Mtl. Having already taken a few unfruitful detours from the main road, it was one of those times where you slowly begin to fear that you may not reach petroleum before your car sputters to a bitter and defeated halt in the middle of nowhere.

Luckily, with just enough time to spare, we came upon the beacon of fluorescent light that is Betty Beaver's Truck Stop and Diner. And oh, what a sight she was! Reining over this shack-like establishment with her all-American poise and headlights as big as, ahem, headlights, Betty was not your average full-service gal and we knew it.

While I was catching beaver-fever by engaging in an impromptu photo shoot with Ms. Betty and our bedraggled driver experienced an unwholesome interaction of his own with the creepy service attendant, I was in awe at the happy-accident of finding such a blatantly pervy figure. As all my friends and vague acquaintances know, a passion to fuel up on beaver is certainly a base-line requirement for me when selecting lovers and to see such striking and random innuendo made me giddy as a school girl. Betty, you are my mascot. God Bless you, and God bless your American flag bustier!