Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Some People Need an Anal Application of a 40-Grit Clue-Stick

What is it about gasoline stations that make people lose their common sense or common courtesy? Well, I know what the real problem is, it's my premise: most people simply don't have any idea of common sense or common courtesy. Most people have the manners and consideration consistent with having been raised by wolves (though, wolves probably have better socialization).

Yesterday, the local Amerigo had a broken pump. This left the double-sided pump on the main island and the double-sided pump on the auxiliary island. Of course, the remaining pump on the main island was in use. Now, I was trying to gas up my wife's Saturn VUE. I generally avoid going to the auxiliary pump because it's not in a great place to try to squeeze a vehicle into. It's even worse with an SUV. Unfortunately, I didn't have many options. Complicating matters was the fact that some dumb bitch with a (surprise, surprise: Maryland-plated) Toyota Echo decided she needed to PARK her car in front of the back pump. This meant I had to maneuver around the gasoline station. Now, when I'd started for the back pump, the only vehicles were the two using the remaining working pumps on the main island, the bitch who parked at the near-side of the back pump, and me. However, right as I was getting my nose to the back pump, some fucker blasted into the station from the wrong way and jammed into the pump in front of me.

To say the least, I was a little pissed. Unfortunately, getting arrested for beating the pulp out of someone would likely cost my my job, my job sector and all of the other things that depend on jobs in that sector. So, I tamped back the rage and extricated myself from the back pump area. Fortunately, in the time it took to extricate myself, one of the main pump slots had come free. So, I backed into the slot, and set about pumping gas.

Now, understand, while I've quelled my rage enough to not go beat the snot out of the fucker in the red Caddy (guess what: it was Maryland plated, too), I glared at him the entire time I was at my pump. The weasely little fuck would occasionally glance over with a guilty look on his face, then quickly look away when he saw that I was still glaring in his direction. I was really hoping he'd say something or even just look at me funny so that I had the excuse to curse him out. For better or worse, he seemed most interested in hurriedly pumping his gas and getting the hell away from there - he squealed his wheels getting out of the station. I finish filling the tank of Donna's car, and begin to leave the station. I notice that the bitch that had parked in front of the one pump is strolling her fat ass back out to her car. As she's disarming her car alarm, I flip her the bird. The look on her face was priceless: it looked like she wanted to say something, but then decided not to. Maybe she realized what she'd done. Either that, or I was (still) looking like I was waiting for an excuse to murder someone.

Today, on the way back from getting the coolant-level checked in my car, I decided to stop in at a gas station near my mechanic's garage. I pull into the station and find myself behind a minivan. He's waiting for one of the pumps to come free. Some cooze in a big, white Chrysler station wagon pulls into the lot from the wrong direction. But, it looks like she's wanting to get into a parking spot, so, the minivan backs up to let her cross in front to get to the parking spot. Instead, this whore decides she's going to cut in line and take the pump slot that I was waiting for.

It turns out the minivan, while blocking the pump I could have used, was actually  waiting in line for the pump on the other side of the island. He'd blocked my slot so that there'd be room for the person in the slot he wanted to be able to pull past him. Ok, whatever. I get that.

What I don't get is the cooze in the Chrysler sees the line, but decides to cut in. Worse, she cut in to go to a pump that required her to back into the pump. Even more fun, as she's starting to back into the pump, the guy at the other end of her side of the island pulls out. So, she backs up to the newly vacated slot. But, since she's driving a full-sized station wagon and is backing in - but only just far enough to get her gas cap exactly next to the pump handle - she's now facing the wrong way, making TWO pump slots unavailable. Did I mention she was driving a Maryland-plated car? Did I mention that this was further into northern VA than the previously mentioned station by my house?

Fortunately, a pump at one of the other islands was just coming free up. In fact, both slots were opening up. So, I start to pull over to that island. Just as I'm getting to my slot, some dickhead in an extended-cab RAM 1500 pulls into the station from the "exit only" outlet to the street. So, he's facing the wrong direction and in a LONG vehicle and is about to pull the same "block two pumps" thing the idiot in the Chrysler had just done (though, at least it was a pull-forward rather than a backing maneuver). I start to lose my shit. His (presumably) wife notices my reaction and makes him reconsider his maneuver. He reverses as far as he can and still reach his tank from the pump at the far end of the side of the island we're at. But, again, he's driving a fucking extended-cab RAM 1500, so he's still well into my slot. So, even after pulling to within 3" of his bumper, I'm still having to stretch the hose to reach my tank (with the gas handle at 90° from the normal resting orientation).

Did I mention that RAM-guy is Maryland-plated, too? I'm catching a real trend, here. It seems like people with Maryland plates have a similar approach to gas stations that they do choosing lanes to drive or pass in on the highways (which is to say, choosing the wrong ones).

At any rate, I figure, "pump my gas, get my receipt and get out" (yeah, I'm one of those people that keeps a log of my fuel purchases and mileage). Unfortunately, even though I'm putting slightly less than half a tank in, I end up not being able to just pump-and-go. Turns out, this station is one of those ones where, if you want the damned receipt, you have to go into the mini-mart and ask for it to be printed out. Fortunately, by the time I get my receipt and get back to my car, the ass-bag in the RAM 1500 has finished up and is backing out so he can exit the right way from the station's exit. So, at least I'm able to pull out in the proper direction and exit through the marked exit.

As I'm driving home, some tool in a blue Chevy goes blazing by me. Admittedly, "blazing by" is a relative term. We were in a 35MPH, mixed-residential/retail zone. I was going 42MPH. Apparently, he needed to get somewhere at 60MPH-plus. As he's blasting by, a sheet of snow/ice separates from the roof of his car and comes flying back at me like the Phatom-zone thing from the Superman movies. Fortunately, it shatters on the ground a few feet in front of my car, rather than actually hitting my car, directly. But, still... What the fuck is it about people in the DC area and not cleaning the goddamned snow off their vehicles before heading out on the road. And, by the way, the last snow to fall in the area was a week prior. Did this toolbag somehow now have the time (over that week) to either clean off his car or at least park it some place where the sun would melt it off??

Oh, yeah: he was driving a Maryland-plated car, too.

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