High Gas Prices Fueling (you clever headline writers, you) Animosity Toward Station Attendants.

I totally know how these people feel. I pulled off of the freeway in Nowhere, CA and all three gas stations were charging $3.17/gallon. I would have just driven to the next town, but who knew how many more miles that was, and my tank was as empty as my stomach. Thankfully there was a Dairy Queen attached to the price-gouging gas station. I nicely asked for one small chocolate/cherry blizzard. I watched as the small town girl blizzarded together the chocolate ingredient and the cherry ingredient and the vanilla ice cream ingredient and marveled at how well she held it under the blizzarding machine. “It’s so nice to have a craft,” I thought that I thought but I actually said aloud. The truck owners in line with me stared at me in a generally unaccepting manner; their craft apparently beating the hell out of Hollywood Elitistsâ„¢. I accepted my treat from the Blizzard Maestro and walked outside to fuel my car.

I placed the Blizzard on my passenger seat and removed my credit card. This was when I realized that the 89Level (the cheap shit) gas was fucking $3.17/gallon. I am a good American consumer and I am fed up. I let that “attendant” have it. When it asked me to insert my card, I put a little extra stank on the insertion. That’s when the “attendant” got sassy and made me input my zip code. “What you don’t trust me? The card has my picture on it,” I quipped with a little animosity. The “attendant” didn’t reply. I was just ignored while we waited for authorization. “Don’t ignore me you metal/plastic smug bastard. You’re glib, you know that? You’re very glib,” I exclaimed pretending to know what glib means. Still nothing from my nemesis. It was evident that I had won with the glib comment. I turned my back and filled my car, watching as the total neared $40.00(American). We didn’t speak as my receipt was printing, but I said something under my breath as I entered my car which was soon forgotten as I looked in the passenger seat:

Mother of fuck, my Blizzard is a flash flood. I hate this fucking town.

But honestly, $3.17 for a fucking gallon of gas? Aren’t we in Iraq getting our oil that our god mistakenly put under their soil? What’s the fucking holdup? Is it all being used to fuel the pump(s) keeping Dick Cheney’s heart going? Or is George W. Bush using is to darken his San Tropez tan? Have you seen that guy in his latest news conferences? He looks like a Puerto Rican George Hamilton. We are at war with Iraq and Mother Nature and our commander-in-chief is sunbathing like a starlet in her introduction scene to the Sean Connery-played James Bond.

Anyway. The night before I assaulted the automated gas pump I stayed in another Microtel. My love affair with the Microtel Brand Motel Chain has kind of cooled. This one, though it didn’t smell like cum, didn’t have a pool (yet). I am doing science-y things to see if the cum smell/pool, no cum smell/no pool is in anyway correlated. So far I have had mixed results though I did make a chlorine baby by accident. But back to my Microtel experience.

This Microtel was in Bellmont, AZ just outside of Flagstaff. The first problem was that the cute, younger-than-she-looked (I’ll get to this later maybe) told me the price:

“$59.99 with AAA,” she said.

“What? It was ten dollars less in Tucumcari, NM [I actually said enn emm to try to sound hip like the young people who speak acronymically]” I expressed, trying to gain some points by knowing where every Microtel in the country is.

“Yeah. This is Flagstaff,” she said matter of factly.

“Exactly,” I said while thinking the French word Touché in my head in German.

She stared at me quizzically.

I stared back at her super-attractively.

“OK. Is this near here?” I replied while pointing to a local travel guide with an obviously photoshopped/airbrushed waterfall.

“No. I don’t think that exists,” she retorted.

“I didn’t tort first, so yours doesn’t count,” I was about to say.

It was then that I noticed that this girl was kind of cute for someone from Arizona and I automagically went into try to get laid mode.

“So, is there like anywhere to go out and get a drink around here?”

“Yeah, there is a bar right across the freeway.”

“Oh. Is it fun?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not old enough to drink.”

“Oh. Umm. I’m gonna go look at that waffle iron while you finish checking me in.”

So. I went to my room and found out the pool was under constuction, no HBO, no Comedy Central and I had gained an hour so it was 5fucking30PM. So I decided to sit around and do what it is that you do in Arizona:

Wish that you were in California.