Doo Rags

I know this may seem like an impossible task, but try it any way. Feast your eyes on this picture of L. A. Sunset working in the kitchens as his alter-ego, the Swedish Chef. This was part of a televised production; a part time gig that netted him several million tax-free dollars because he (a) used a phony name and social security number, and (b) salted it all away in (you guessed it) a secret numbered Swedish bank account. We understand, of course … Bernie Madoff is serving time for his swindle, but that’s because he wasn’t as smooth as the infamous Sunsett-meister.

But now what I want you to do is imagine this same Svedish looking fellow in a Doo-rag. He has about twenty such rags. I know this because he told me that he owned ten of them, and then when he was down here for his visit, he bought ten more from a concession in the Air Force Exchange. I have no idea why a military exchange would sell such things.

Granted, they were quasi-patriotic doo-rags. Let’s see … one had Billy-goats on them, representing the Naval Academy, two had oversized chickens, I suspect representing the Air Force Academy, two more had vulgar expressions that I shouldn’t repeat here on the “G” rated blog, three had mules on them (Army mascot), one had a bulldog, and one had pink renditions of the famous puppet, Lamb-chop. Don’t bother asking me questions about this because Social Sense pursues a “don’t ask-don’t tell” policy.

It would be an understatement to suggest I was embarrassed. During the process of selecting his doo-rags and making the purchases, I just stepped away and went into a nearby coffee shop hoping that no one would notice we entered the mall together. I was running an alibi through my head when he found me; the thoughtful merchant had wrapped the doo-rags in a brown wrapper, which of course was a relief.

As we began walking outside into the warm late Spring Florida sun, I said, “So Sunsett, do you own a Harley?”

“No," he replied, "Mrs. Sunsett won’t let me have one.”

We continued walking toward the vast parking lot and my early model pickup truck. I continued my line of questioning. “Do you belong to a street gang up there in the Tippecanoe State?”

“No," he said, "Why do you ask?”

We waited for a car to pass before continuing across a small drive aisle, "Oh, I guess I'm just curious about the doo-rags,” I said nonchalantly.

“Oh,” he said, “those. Well, I wear them at work.”

“Really? I thought you told me you worked in a hospital.”

“I do.”

"Okay, hold it." I said. I stopped walking and gave him one of my incredulous looks. “I’ve been to a lot of hospitals; not once have I ever seen a medical professional wearing a doo-rag.”

“Have you ever been to Willie Nelson Memorial Hospital?”

“No.”

And that was the end of our discussion about doo-rags —until last Sunday when Sunsett called me up for some advice. He was having some issues with his garage door opener, and we were discussing a few things he might try in order to trouble-shoot the problem. In the background, I hear that sweet, crystalline voice of Mrs. Sunsett … “Why are you wearing that disgusting biker doo-rag?”

So, at least I know it isn’t just me.