Just call him Spank the Turkey

It's a long, lonesome road between Wi-Fi hotspots. God knows where I read it, but I recall one bit of advice to new truckers from veterans about smoothing over roadside police stops: "Keep your copies of Hustler out of sight."

(Aside: I also have some lore about surviving in prison, not that I worry about needing it, just waiting for the night it comes in handy at pub trivia. Usually it's stuff like knowing which state's motto is "The Land of Enchantment". Nailing that one helped my team crush the competition at my local the other night, and we don't cheat on our iPhones like so many of the kids blatantly do. Despite having my two sports-trivia savants on hand, we were hanging our heads on the Sports Illustrated Sportsman of the Year for 2013 from the Broncos: we guessed Tebow -- it was Peyton. Peyton! Screw that pasty, shitty-chicken-parm-scarfing, lamely-limping-into-a-ring mope.)

I suspect that these places also do a brisk business in marital aids and gag gifts (no pun intended) for bachelor / bachelorette parties. Nobody wants that kind of purchase in their Amazon Prime history.

I've been around long enough to remember when Dumpling Cafe in Chinatown --- the best Taiwanese place in the neighborhood, with the city's best xiao long bao (look for "mini juicy buns with pork" or "with pork & crabmeat'), never mind the Phantom-inspired lines of white dopes at Gourmet Dumpling House, a distant third behind Taiwan Cafe -- was an adult bookstore. It had rap booths in the back, a fun relic to explain to youngsters.