West of Southeast North

I'm hearing that the world will end in 2012. That's a little harsh, but hey - if that's what it takes to implement term limits, I'm in.

But after hearing about this ultimate "last call," I thought it best to try some new things. Slow down and savor. Look over some overlooked stuff. Stop buying 2-liter cola. Quit waiting for Saturday Night Live to get funny again.

Then, last week, I had occasion to drive from north South Carolina, to south South Carolina, and back again. From the top, down to the bottom, and back up. So since the world was pending ending, I opted to avoid the freeways and leisurely motor "through the country."

Wow. As the saying goes, "same planet, different worlds."

I drove through one village so small that there was only one light. Not a traffic light, mind you - just this one truck, with a single functioning brake light. During the festive holidays, they park the truck in the square, and citizens take turns pressing and releasing the brake pedal. It's magical. The burg had one store (The Mobile Home Depot). The bank's ATM dispensed change. They had a Commission of Private Works. City Hall was, literally, in a hall. This town was so tiny, they only had 8 McDonalds.

Another city along the way boasts that it's the "Home of Ten Governors," a boast they make about every ten feet. Somewhere, there's an enterprising artisan who makes "Home of Ten Governors" signs, and that is one wealthy artisan indeed. However, with ten preening peer politicians running around loose, you definitely want to avoid their endless, mind-numbing City Council meetings. I understand they're still debating whether or not America should get involved in the War of 1812.

[SIDEBAR] According to my research, all 10 of these Governors apparently had access to excellent maps in their time, since none of them ever ducked out to go hiking and somehow ended up in Argentina.

Deeper along in the country, one fast-food joint's marquee suggested that hungry drivers "TRY OUR NEW." That's it. Just "TRY OUR NEW." Sometimes, I suppose, it's best to ease into marketing.

I drove past another store with two signs by the road, but no signage whatsoever on the building itself. Apparently, the store was actually named "Open Saturday."

[SIDEBAR] As you read along here, be aware that "rural" does not mean "dumb." Another diner along the road offered something called a BOGO double cheeseburger. Everybody in that town understood the promising benefits of BOGO. Not me. I supposed it to be some kind of imported meat. It took me two whole days and an intensive internet search to figure out that BOGO meant "Buy One, Get One."

And then there were the hunters. Everywhere. In groups or solo. With hounds or without. But all in full camouflage and all heavily armed.

I'm not a hunter, but I have nothing against hunting. At least hunters seem to respect their prey, which is more than I can say for members of Congress. And hunters never ask you for money. So hunting is fine by me - I'm just not a hunter. What I know about guns is this: you should hold the woody end. That's it.

On one short stretch of highway, I saw seven or eight groups of hunters, all leaning against tricked-out trucks and perfecting their tactics for the next Spittoon Olympics.

One sportsman sat in his truck, leaning out the driver's window, holding what looked like a small, spoked aluminum aerial. Maybe he was tuned in to the Ten Governor Boast-A-Thon. Maybe he was triangulating turkey bio-rhythms. Or maybe he was sitting alone in a truck, with an antenna and a shotgun, because he was deep-bat-cave barking insane. He was armed, so I didn't ask. I drove on.

A few hundred yards along, I saw a very nervous-looking turkey standing in the soft shoulder, trying to thumb a ride, which is a good trick when you don't have thumbs. The edgy turkey was holding up a fatalistic placard: Florida or Baste. Around the next bend was another uneasy bird, announcing its own hard luck story: Just Got Fired (At). Will Work To Not Be Food.

But if the world goes on for a million more years, and I'm there for every one of them, nothing will ever top what I saw next - a building bearing this fascinating shingle: "Elite Equine Shavings."

I don't know where to start.

What goes on inside that windowless complex? What do they make, or sell, or ... do to ... what? What does their logo looks like? When there's a job opening for staff or middle management, what skills are required? How would one re-rig one's résumé for that plum gig? Could that displaced, jobless, hitchhiking turkey apply?

Exactly what service they provide at Elite Equine Shavings? Do they sell shaved horses? Have you, personally, ever shopped in vain for a bald horse? If you answered "yes," have you considered therapy? Have you, personally, ever wished for such psychotic, shameless control over any mammal? If you answered "yes," what Congressional district do you represent?

Have the marketers at Elite nosed out some niche, some ignored audience, some clinically disturbed group craving horse shavings? Or are they simply horse barbers? Is this some upscale Mane Salon for that well-groomed horse-about-town? What out-of-date magazines lie about in the lobby for their prancing patrons? Equine Esquire? Better Stables and Gardens? How much is a hoof manicure?

Is there an epicurean market segment somewhere, clamoring for shaved horse? Do the workers freeze-dry the animal and go at it over time, or do they process a thorough thoroughbred all at once?

I noted that Elite Equine Shavings was situated just next to the local airport, so they can quickly respond to any restaurant facing a horse shavings shortage. Personally, I can't even count the number of times I've been preparing for a high-brow, tony soirée, only to realize at the last minute that I'm fresh out of diced horse. Worry no more! Just add Elite to your speed dial!

[SIDEBAR] There actually is a town called North, South Carolina. Interestingly, it's seventy-five miles from Ninety Six. And North, South Carolina, is 100 miles southeast of Due West.

I know this, because that's where I dropped off the turkey.