That’s what the sign on the back of the white Dodge Ram pickup said. “PMS Mobile Unit: I Fix It,” and a phone number. I followed the truck east on 29th until he cut me off, and made a sharp right turn. Which ticked me off. Now I don’t have the number and I’ll never know how the fellow in the baseball cap fixes PMS.
I suspect chocolate may have something to do with it.
What do you think?