Gas Rant
This is actually a thing for me. I’ve had nightmares. I am not joking. If my wife even mentions the word “gas” my hand will break the sound barrier being held up in a quivering halt gesture, whereupon I will inform her that she is not allowed to continue speaking unless the conversation is about burp or fart gas, but not gas gas! Never gasoline or its “prices.” And by prices I of course mean AAAAUUURHHGHGHH!!!
Hey! You can just squeegee that look off your face right now, okay!!! Unless you’re gritting your teeth along with me, in which case you can set the squeegee down. Sloooowly. I’m already getting myself pretty f##king worked up about this!
I try to warn people, to stop them. From getting me started. I’ll desperately shout, “Don’t get me started! You would not like me if you got me started!” and then I start turning green and my clothes start tearing as my muscles begin bulging… okay maybe it’s more of blushy pink, really, and maybe it’s just a vein in my neck that’s doing the bulging.* And alright, I admit it, I’m the one who’s ripping up my clothes.
* It could be a vein in my forehead, I’ll have to check with my wife which it is. I forget.
Sure it’s possible I may have been seriously over-influenced as a child by the post-apocalyptic Mad Max movies, where gas was like gold. Whatever! The situation is insane pre-apocalyptic! You can all go build a boat out of your judgement and drown! I’M the one who’s gonna have a secret stash of gas if the world collapses and shit gets all sandy and people start dressing like they’re in a speed metal band that raided a sporting goods store! And you know what!?! YOU WILL ALL COME TO ME!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! TO ME! I’LL BE THE ONE THAT KNEW!!! …
Ehem.
I’m gauging from my hyperventilation and profuse sweating that it’s probably best for me to walk away from this conversation at this point.
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