Time Spent in Hell is Only As Bad As The Genetic Pool Designates

Last Thursday I coasted into the Exxon on Markham and Van Buren with the intention of putting a whole buttload of gas in my wheezing little tank.

Well, we all know how good intentions lead to... something really bad and annoying. Insert whatever that saying actually says and you've got youself a fun time in the Exxon station.

So I pull up in the lot, which is full of ignorant folk playing Wait In Line For Gas when you can OBVIOUSLY pull around to the other pump. But, GOD. That would take a WHOLE LOT OF EFFORT to move my car into the other lane to pump gas. Didn't you know there's a LAW? You HAVE to pump your gas while facing in a Northwesterly direction. To face southeast... well. THAT would be unthinkable.

I find my credit card, buried within the depths of my purse and proceed to amble out into the artificially lit hub that is apparently the Exxon lot. I pop my fuel door. I unscrew my fuel cap. I place my fuel cap in it's designated spot. And then I swipe my card.

And I swipe my card.

And I swipe my card.

Oh, AND I SWIPE MY CARD.

Each time, this fun little message appears "Card Not Read Now."

What do YOU MEAN by CARD NOT READ NOW??

Eventually I shrug, assuming I'm going to have to carry my sweaty and unattractively clad self into the actual service station. (I desperately wish I could be one of those people that can go to the gym and emerge an hour later looking fresh and glowy-- NO. I look like a sweaty, chubby, red-faced Bernadette-Peters-hair-having freak.) Something that totally pisses me off because I don't even stop at gas stations that are sans pay-at-the-pump thingees.

So I press the handle and start to pump my gas.

Until it starts slowing down at nine dollars... and slows to a CRAWL at nine seventy-five... and trickles in at nine ninety-nine and then STOPS at ten dollars. Just STOPS.
I take a deep breath and hope the gas fumes kill the brain cells that are furiously spinning, looking for a match I can strike and place in the fuel nozzle. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the my car window. Yep. I'm still red-faced. Still chubby. Still have frizzy hair. FANTASTIC.

Walk into service station-- which, I might add, is being run by the illegitimate inbred offspring of MC Hammer, where I am informed of the following:

Inbred: "That girl at pump three is the one that paid the ten dollars."

Me: "That's nice. Um. I need to pay for the gas on pump two-- it cut me off at ten so...."

Inbred: "Yeyeah. You're in that black car on pump two, right?"

Me: "Yes. Black car on pump two. Ten dollars. Here's my card."

Inbred: "But see, that girl has already paid the ten dollars for her pump."

Me (true confusion setting in): "Um. Okay. That's nice. I just want to pay for my ten on pump two."

Inbred: "I'm going to ring you up for the charges on pump three since the girl on that one has already paid the ten."

Me: "Uh. No. Why the hell would I pay for gas on pump three when I pumped gas on pump TWO."

Inbred: "Because the girl on pump three has already paid the ten dollars."

We stare each other down. A good ten seconds go by.

Me: "Put. ten. dollars. on. my. card. please."

Inbred: "Look, here comes the girl on pump three again. Just ask her if she paid the ten dollars."

Me: "But I DON'T CARE if she paid ten dollars for gas, for eyebrow waxing or for a jumbo bag of PORK SKINS. PLEASE PUT TEN DOLLARS ON MY CARD FOR PUMP TWO."

Pump Three Girl: (sensing the utter distress I was in and the iminent violence that was about to had upon the Inbred Girl's ignorant ass) "The clerk opened up the wrong pump for me after I pre-paid ten dollars. I just pumped ten on three, which should cover my gas. (turns to Inbred Clerk) So all you have to do is charge her for ten dollars and everything is fine.

Silence.

I glare in the Inbred's direction. I hand her my card.

Me: "Ten dollars on pump two, please." Said through gritted teeth.

Inbred: "Well. That's what I been trying to tell you the whole time. Gaawwd."


GAH!