for reals, yo.
on friday afternoon i stopped to get gas. i spent twenty five dollars to fill a less than ten gallon tank. bitches! of course this particular gas station is of the complete-and-total-rip-off variety, otherwise known as BenDover’s Gas and Cigarettes, what with the 50 cents for a cup of ice on hot days, 75 cent fee to use your atm card, and certain loss of limb for questioning such policies, etcetera, etcetera. but hey, that’s l.a. and i will suffer through that to get gas at a fraction of a cent less.
because that’s how i am. because gas is costly, suckas.
and also because my car was dinging at me, “low fuel! low fuel!” it’s made of popsicle sticks and red jello that can’t stand up to a strong wind but it’s computerized to ring and ding and click and swoosh whenever i push a button or breathe too deeply in its presence. right then, i would have sold Boy into slavery just to make it stop. in other news, i find that this diet of pills and lingering pain seems to be making me short of patience and sort of irritable. this is shocking.
anyway. there i am, in the gas station, patiently waiting in line to pay for gas that i will then pump into my rental paper-bag-on-wheels. it takes several minutes to work the gas cap you know. it cannot be opened by mere mortals. it’s spring loaded. and it has teeth.
so there i am, all innocent-like, when this girl walks in and goes up to the bullet-proof glass partition to shout at the man inside that she needs to use the bathroom.
she looks like this:
and been somewhat less tom cruise/courtney love-level crazy
she would have been totally cute. any takers?
don't answer until you finish the story.
he points her in the general direction and goes back to helping the customers who are waiting, but she looks at him with fireballs shooting from her eyes and shouts again, “can i get a token?”
to which he replies, “no, this is a pay bathroom.” because yes, this is a pay bathroom. a gas station pay bathroom into which she was going to walk WITH NO SHOES. she might as well just marry a federline.
instead she flails all epileptic-like for a minute, her life jacket making big-thigh swooshie sounds, and then she screams, “are you kidding me? i have to pay to use the fucking bathroom even though i’m buying fucking gas?” which, unrelated, is even more expensive than premium unleaded because, hello, it’s fucking. you can’t even get it in the middle east. i think it’s the kind of gas they’re finding in alaska.
and then the gas station man says yes and continues ringing up the thirteen jabillion scratch tickets that belong to the woman in front of me. here’s where it gets really good.
the girl then presses herself up against the plastic fishbowl cage the man sits in and repeats her earlier rant. except with more fucking, and a neat little end capper. it went like this:
“you mean to tell me i have to fucking pay to use the fucking bathroom? i can’t fucking get a fucking token even though i’m buying fucking gas? that’s so fucking jewish!”
and still, no shoes.
then she stormed out, clearly besting the attendant with her display of pure class, pumped her three dollars worth, got in her beat-down 93 hyundai and sped off into the cheeto-colored sunset.