Oh – hey y’all hey. I hope you are well – and totes not laboring on this end-of-summer holiday. I do hope you’re wearing white, though, since I’ll be judging you if you dare put it on after midnight tonight. I know what they say – that the whole “you can’t wear white after Labor Day” fashion rule is out-dated and no longer relevant – but those people are the ones still trying to squeeze into their (by now) off-white skinny jeans and looking like fools. You know I’m only looking out for you, little ones.
So we have a lot to catch up on – as usual. Do you recall – probably about a week or so ago . . . when crazy-ass Michele Bachmann was talking about bringing $2.00 a gallon gas to America? Try to sort it out from all the other ridiculous statements she’s made – I’ll give you a minute.
Okay, back together now. Whew. I was worried I’d lost you – there is a shit-ton to sort through. Anyway – I didn’t like listen to her speech longer than to hear that sentence – mainly because I was giggling with delight. Her statement immediately took me back to a time when gas was $2.00 a gallon – or very near it, and it involves me sticking it to the man. A real “f-you” to the establishment . . . and/or the crazy Asian bitch that ran the BP station at the corner of 34th Street and Lamar in Austin. Yeah, y’all know who I’m talking about. That bitch is single-handedly responsible for me continuing my cocaine diet for more than the prescribed six weeks. I swear to God – if that bitch asked me if I was pregnant while trying to buy a box of Franzia one more fucking time . . . I guess her hatred of America kept her from noticing bulimia when it walked in to fill up.
So – let me take you on a short trip on memory lane. Let’s set the scene. A hotter-than-normal Austin night. Summer of 2006, I would guess. My dumbass-former roommate had somehow rear-ended the shit out of my car – thus I was driving an Impala. Yes, perfect for riding slow and banging screw. You know this, man. Anyway – that damn car used up a hell of a lot of gas – and unbeknownst to my new-to-the-car-rental-game self thought that fuel should definitely be paid for by the un-surance company. My protests went ignored. So – I’m cruising around in the Impala – doing some rickyboxing, as I would be at that point in time, and the little light that signified I was about to be broke-the-fuck-down came on – and I was forced to look for a Filling Station. As much as I hated pulling in to the BP station at the corner of 34th and Lamar – I had to – I didn’t want to risk running out of gas outside of West Campus (like a date of mine did one time – he went to fill up a gas can – I took my flats off and ran the fuck home – maybe we’ll visit that story later) . . .
I pull in – gas was a very steep $1.91 (I know! And it was Regular Unleaded! Fucking American dependence on foreign oil!) – I pulled into place, flipped open the door to the gas tank and inserted my credit card. I began fueling up and something strange started to happen. I mean the gas was definitely flowing – but the “Total Cost” meter was advancing in incredibly small increments. I stopped, did a quick double take and proceeded to fill up for approximately $4.80. I was in heaven, because, naturally, this meant I had just enough from the $20 bill I grabbed out of my afore-mentioned roommate's purse for a cool, crisp, refrigerated box of Summer Blush Franzia – the finest in boxed spirits.
I went in, picked up my Franzia, knocked over several shelf items, just for the hell of it (and because I was probably stoned . . . it was college! and only my second Junior year – so sue me!), paid and went back to Pump Number 7. I began to very slyly inspect this pump, while I opened my newly-purchased box of heaven. Then I noticed it. Right there – in front of my eyes the whole time!
When homegirl went to jack her fuel prices up at least 10 cents more than every other station in the area, she totes erred and misplaced that mother-fucking decimal point. Yes. You got me.
At that moment, gas was selling for $.19 a gallon. Sucker!
I debated going in to let her know – or at least pressing the handi-crap “Help” button to make her walk her pony-tailed ass outside to assist me (and by doing so, assist herself) – and after that half a second of debate I picked up my cellie (yes, let’s keep the phrasing ghetto here) and called every. single. person. I. know.
You’re welcome. I proceeded to lap the station and fill back up – just to relish in the fact that – in terms of gas prices (and potentially whether I was knocked up or not) – I could have very well been a member of the Pink Ladies – Rizzo, obvi.
Everyone I called went on to call everyone they knew and the station was soon packed. I even invited a select few to join me in a celebratory glass of Franzia – which, I think, cost more per ounce than Regular Unleaded – or even Premium did. This, of course, only lasted about an hour – the mistake was realized and immediately fixed. A tirade followed . . . something was screamed – I don’t really remember what – mainly because I was drunk by that point – but I think she was telling us to head to Iraq if we wanted gas that cheap.
(On a side note – is that true? Do my new vacay plans need to include the Middle East? Do you know if they sell Louis Vuittons for cheaper, too? Yes, the real ones! Let me know.)
I wonder if Michele Bachmann is planning on that kind of cheap gas. If so, I’d like to recommend myself to her for a cabinet position; or something official. Mainly because I’m adorable, have great hair and can teach her how to focus her eyes and look at the camera.