Pure as the Driven Snow

Why do we do the things that we do? I don't know that there exists a lazier legitimate question.

It would be easy enough for me to say, "Well, it was snowing for God's sake!" Or, I could say, "I would have picked up anyone," or "How could I know who she was?" That's ridiculous of course, to not know who she was, professionally speaking. And, while the other two attempts might be honest, let's face it, anyone knows why I picked her up. Anyone but me, I suppose

Farrel, she told me was her name. I'd seen her on the billboard out near the airport. You know, the one with the lady in a top hat, lying lengthwise so that the dimples of her lower back stop midway off the right side of the board? If you'd seen it you'd know it.

I'd never been to that particular establishment. But, even if I hadn't seen that sign before, I could have ventured a guess at who--I just don't feel comfortable saying "what"--she was; there just aren't too many ladies going down that street who aren't visiting one of the intimate apparel shops or... well, working. And--I figure this was the kicker--she was wearing a latex naughty nurse uniform. A white little number that didn't completely cover her rump and a top that didn't completely cover anything, and of course a nurse's hat that read "Head Nurse." Cute.

So, I pulled alongside the snow-banked curb, rolled down the passenger window and asked if she needed a ride. She hurriedly accepted.

"What the hell is your problem?" my wife nearly bit my ear off as I leaned over her to offer; a rather uncharitable nature, I thought.

"Wha-at?" I defended feebly. "There's room... right kids?"