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FacebookI was listening to the Raider game over the weekend. During the broadcast, I heard a promo encouraging fans to vote. Yeah, that’s what American needs: Raider fans determining how the country is run. Not every uneducated illiterate with a criminal record deserves a voice. It’s this sorta propaganda that pisses me off. I hate voting season.
I’ve been so busy with other things I haven’t spent much time writing lately. There are so many things I wanted to share. Like last month when I went to get gas for the company Tahoe. Fueling that beast is a concrete reminder why I drive the Almighty Honda: it cost more to fill-up than the gross domestic product of Paraguay. If it wasn’t for the company credit card, I wouldn’t be able to fill it up because no one cares around that much cash.
I think the worst part of having to fill up a 26-gallon tank is the time it takes to do so. My car has a tiny tank–I’m rarely at a gas station long enough to squeegee off the front windshield. The Tahoe is always below E (’cause no one ever wants to take the time to get gas) and it usually takes about ten minutes to refill. So when I’m at the gas station I do what anyone else with time to kill would do: watch everyone else around me.
The truck was refueling when a chik in a late model Mercedes pulled up to the pump next me. The girl was about 18-20 years. I watched her hop out of the car and walk towards the cashier. She was very much an Orange County girl from her died blonde hair to designer sunglasses. I found her car to be interesting. Clearly it was a newer, expensive car–but it’s rare to see a Mercedes get treated with such neglect. The car was filthy–covered in a layer of dirt so thick it’d take a chisel to get it off. The car hadn’t been washed since the last rainfall (I know this because my car looks the same way). The back seat was also dirty–filled with the remains of fastfood wrappers, magazines, and other disposable clutter that amasses when one is too lazy to throw anything away (again, I know this from firsthand experience). The girl came back to her car and I turned my attention away from her, not wanting to look like a busybody.
I hated that girl. I didn’t know her name or much of anything about her–but I knew that I hated her. Anyone who spends the amount of money it cost to buy a Mercedes would never let it get in that condition. I say that not because I’m a Mercedes aficionado but because I know expensive when I see it. My guess was her parents probably gave it to her. The girl had no sense of pride or ownership because she was probably use to having stuff given to her whole life.
I was ripped away from my thoughts when I saw the girl return the nozzle back to the pump and screwed on her fuel cap. It caught me off guard–the Tahoe was still taking gas and this gal was already finished. At first I thought maybe I mentally fell asleep because it felt like she only spent about 20 seconds pumping gas. But when I saw my pump on dispersed 12 gallons, I knew that wasn’t the case: for whatever reason, she did not spend much time at the pump.
I waited for her to drive away before I examined this phenomenon further (pretty young blondes who drive Mercedes don’t like it when unshaved vagrants show too much interest in them). When she pulled out of the stall I looked at the pump. Total sale: $6.
Six dollars? Who buys only $6 dollars of gas? At today’s prices, that’s not even two gallons.
That’s when I started to chuckle. Poor little rich girl. She might have the $50,000 car, the expensive dye job, and fashion sense of a runway model. But the one thing she doesn’t have is enough money for gas. That’s the only reason one buys $6 of gas. Two miserable gallons isn’t worth the time to stop at the pump…unless you don’t have enough fuel to make it home. That girl was a person whose life wasn’t as good as she liked everyone to believe. And that always amuses me.
Does that make me a bad person?