I was checking our neighborhood association's PO box at the post office. I do this because our association president carries a gun on his person at all times. His idea of fun family trips is to drive his kids down to see that big Noah's Ark in Kentucky. And even though, to paraphrase Buzz McCallister, we live in one of the safest and most boring towns in the known world, he is unwilling to unstrap even though it means he is barred from post office.
But I digress. So there I am, post-workout, pre-lunch, minding my business, handful of dues payments for my scintillating afternoon of scanning in mobile deposits. Like your son, I am also wearing an awesome ND sweatshirt. Does a cherished Hero du Lac like Pat C cross my path? Of course not. I get some Larry David looking chowderhead who notices my ND sweatshirt and decides this is the moment he will get something very interesting off his chest.
Dollar Store Larry: "Hey that's a, well, was a great school."
Potatohouse: "What? Oh. Oh yeah. You mean the team? Football's been kinda lost lately."
DSL: "No, no. My brother went there in the 80s. Crazy what's happening lately with all the queer stuff."
PH: "....I'm sorry, the what?"
DSL: "And man did Pete Bud-a-Jud ruin that town, huh?"
PH: "Alright, alright. Look, dude this is not-."
DSL: "Sorry, brother. Damn shame."
At that point, the interaction mercifully ended as the man turned and walked briskly into the post office, leaving me with a stack of checks, confusion, and a sense that we should all just leave this fucked world behind.
Glad you got to eat chicken with your fingers and cheer on the green knight.