Let us pray

Back in the old days, when I was toiling at the Recreation Factory, I used to call it "The Church of Retail" - on Sundays.
It is a Sunday today, and since we arrived late last night and the nice lady at the SLO Cty park was closing the office she said "just register in the morning."
Well, we're sittin' here between the RV's, the Stupid Utility Vehicles (a bleach blonde guy just drove by our tent [without waving; and I probably coulda reached out and touched him - I have orangutan arms, you know?] in a Toyota FJ Cruiser - and Heidi says "why would THAT guy 'camp' here?) and the occasional Amtrak train - and the two people in the nice, shiny white Park Ranger pickup truck stop and ask us if we've registered yet. He says "The park office opened at 9". Then looks at his watch and realizes it is 3 minutes after 9, and starts to look a little more sheepish, and less officious.
Now, I had seen the unofficial looking woman in the passenger seat with the clipboard laughing hysterically when they went past, going the other way, so I thought the moment was ripe for a little comic relief. I asked where we could get some cigarettes, alcohol, and gasoline. I told her I was a member of "The Church of the Internal Combustion Engine." She looked at my cycling clothing, my bike, my tent, and then back at me. I added, "I try to keep it hidden."

She responded, "Make sure to get the PeptoBismol too."