Mod mom and chitlins

I went to Ireland for my sister's wedding. It was held in County Cork. The countryside there is lush and bucolic and the air thick with the smell of cow dung. Returning to the airport from our classy digs at the Waterford Castle the family stopped at a gas station. We had been in the van a while so everyone was eager to use the facilities. I took the opportunity to grab a smoke.  Once my hand rolled was lit, I surveyed the parking lot. We had pulled up next to a yellow metal framed buggy that straddled car wheels and was pulled by a pony. A couple of  teenage boys with identical close cropped haircuts were straddling a pick-nick table next to the pony. They said something to me in a thick Irish brogue. The meaning was lost to me but the intent was clearly meant to mock. I am use to this from the natives. It is my birthright, my Florida Man's burden if you will.  I nodded as if I didn't understand and waved. They looked at each other and confirmed my alien nature as if mutually agreeing to give me a wide birth lest my freak be contagious. The boys conspicuously composed  themselves and left. The two of them hung onto the back of the buggy. The fuzzy pony spun out onto a little gravel path that ran down the side of the convenient store and they bounced away. I looked at the table where they were sitting and found a motoring magazine. It was full of the latest reviews for "drifting" style Japanese cars made more savory to their market by buxom girls from Brighton beach.   This made me ponder if somewhere in an adjacent reality all things boy toy were sold in a more Freudian manner. I can imagine cambered mag wheels hocked by hot mod moms. Mach 5 minivans full of screaming Chim Chims.