I wouldn’t think this needed to be said and sure there are monstrously more important things to concern oneself with, but you sir who caused this rant deserve to be punched in the jaw. Violence before lunch, I’m sure my doctor would not approve of the elevated blood pressure on such a trivial subject. None the less I am here to provide a service.
Firstly if you can’t see over the steering wheel, get a booster seat. (Insert racist slur here) They have these in every restaurant for children who can’t reach sir. One of these would go a long way towards helping your line-up at the pump. While it was somewhat humorous the first two times you couldn’t get out of the car due to those monstrous steel pipes, my joviality wore off when you finally did get lined up and did not pull forward to the front pump. Really? Son of a….
Normally at a small gas station there are only two pumps in a row. Parking in the middle to use the back pump with no one in the front is akin to not following the one urinal spacing rule in restrooms, maybe another time for that story. Is this the first time you have ever gotten gas? “Just go around you say”. Ok let’s try that. Two vehicles on the opposite side so I pull up behind car number two, waiting not so patiently for my turn.
Problem number two. The huge truck in the front with the confederate flag symbol proudly waving sits idle. There is no pump handle protruding from the gas tank. Are the inhabitants in using the restroom? Are they paying with food stamps, or buying the ever important lotto ticket? No, it appears smoke is billowing out the window from “neck number one”. Perfect, much better plan to be sitting in the truck smoking as opposed to pumping gas with a cigarette that would be unsafe.
So what the hell is he waiting for? Why is he not just moving out-of-the-way so the car behind him can move? Son of a … We are in gas station hell. Alright that’s it I’m backing up (again) so what happens next? “No booster seat” is coming around, “oh yes by all means don’t pay any attention to me”. When he does finally see me he honks! Seriously, oh no you didn’t, this horn sonata gets him a finger he still can’t see so I pull back up. Son of a…
Ah here we go “neck number two”, is coming out of the store. She is a vision, carrying a twelve pack of bud light under her lovely leg-sized arm, adorned with a guns and roses dagger tattoo. Her ankle has a matching confederate flag, are we in Missouri?
Her “old man” must be the considerate type. He obviously couldn’t have moved into a parking spot out of the pump line because his “old lady” would have gotten lost looking for the flag. “Yes sir, take your time”. No, No, do not drive away just yet, make sure her cigarette is completely lit and let her get that Bud open. I wouldn’t want it to spill; oh there she goes, have a little sip so it won’t spill whiles he’s driving. True love. Of course Iowa plates, surprised I am not.
Finally, at least the Jeep is full; if that had been the truck I would still be there. Ok I hear the thump of the pump finishing; out I jump into the wind, “why yes I would love a receipt”. Sorry See Attendant! *&^%$#. Son of a….