Even True Projectophiles need a vacation. My project this week? Spending a romantic long weekend alone with the husband, biking our way through the green, cow-spotted hills of South Central Wisconsin.
Every traveler relies on signs to guide her through unknown territory. A good sign communicates its message across language and cultural barriers, and may just bring a smile to wandering sign-o-philes like us.
We started our journey on a Chicago-to-Madison bus, and were delighted to find that the bus’ tiny bathroom was rich in signage.
There are two buttons in this bathroom. One flushes the toilet. The other stops the bus. Choose wisely.
Scott thinks the one below means: “Gentleman, please sit down to urinate.”
My interpretation? “Sad men in fedoras must not watch each other poop.”
When we finally arrived in our host town, Scott and I were a little shocked to find that the townspeople are divided into two distinct groups: Charter Members, and OTHERS.
The town itself was quite welcoming, but there are a few rules here, especially about whom you can and cannot touch:
More rules? Well, SHIT. Guess I better take my @#$%& potty mouth to the next &*$# town over.
The electricity here seems to be stronger, meaner and more aggressive than what we’ve got at home, based on how many warning signs we found.
Though there are also much friendlier types of electricity here. This one may just try to tickle you while you cheer it on:
Most people assume that Cheese dominates the Wisconsin economy. However, many of the town’s transactions are actually conducted with rhubarb:
But watch out — there is a seedy underbelly to the area economy. If you thought human trafficking wasn’t a problem in South Central Wisconsin, you’d be dead wrong:
Someone in this town is fully armed, and really has a grudge against complicated school bus stop signs:
No, look closer. That really is a bullet hole.
And speaking of seediness… I’m not much of a gambler, but when it comes to Christmas in July, it’s double-or-nothing! Wait, make that triple-or-nothing!
Of course, I couldn’t resist making a sign of my own. Especially after a twig jumped in my spokes and sent me flying over the handlebars, covering the left half of my body in bruises and road rash.
The good news is that 1) the majority of South Central Cheeseheads own pickup trucks, and 2) that hitchhiking is still a legitimate form of transportation.
All you need is the right sign.