I'm not sure why nothing in my life is ever easy. Ever. Just like how all The Dude ever wanted was his rug back, all I ever wanted was to get some tacos for lunch. Let me back up to the beginning.
It all started when I was going to lunch the other day. As I was unlocking my door, I noticed a large portion of my driver's side was covered in a sticky, white substance. (Don't even go there.) It looked like someone spilled something on my car and tried to wipe it off, but pretty much only succeeded in rubbing the substance in further. Seriously? I cause enough trouble for myself; I don't need help from anyone else. I needed gas anyway (the kind that comes from crude oil, not the other), so I figured I'd just run it through the car wash before all manner of debris attached itself to my vehicle.
If you know me, you know I spend a ridiculous amount of time at the 7-Eleven. We are bff's. I frequently do my grocery shopping there. I eat lunch there at least three times a week. My schedule is crazy. If I can pick up a sandwich, gummy sharks, milk, wine, and the new Vanity Fair without braving the grocery store, then I am a happy person. Ergo, I drove my sticky-mobile over to the 7-Eleven and pulled up to the gas tank. I'm not sure when the gas pump became the lay man's Jeopardy, but I am pretty fucking sick of answering thirty thousand questions before I'm even allowed to remove the nozzle. Do you want to pay inside or outside? Credit or debit? What's you PIN? Your billing zip code? Did you know Slim Jims are on sale 4/$5? JMFHF! Just give me some gawdamned petrol! It finally asked if I wanted to buy a car wash and save ten cents per gallon. Yes! A thousand times, yes!
Ten years later, I was finally allowed to remove the nozzle and put it in my tank. (Why does that sound dirty?) Except, I've picked some kind of deformed gas pump that has the shortest nozzle known to man. I put the damn thing in my tank, clicked that dohickey that keeps the gas pumping, turned around to get back in the car (like you're not supposed to do)... and the fucking thing fell out and scratched all down the side of my car. Mother. Fucker. I've only had the damned car for two months. This is why I can't have nice things.
So, I had to hold the mothertrucking nozzle in my tank while it pumped. Not to mention, I reeked of gasoline. Awesome. It finished and I went to collect my ticket with the car wash code. After all, that was the main reason I went—to get my car cleaned. The ticket never printed. I didn't murder anyone yet because I knew my buddy inside, Ahmed, would give me the hookup.
Naturally, Ahmed was off. Sonofabitch! The girl behind the counter printed my receipt and showed me that I neither payed for a car wash nor received the ten cent discount. Now someone was going to die. For future reference, they will not refund your money on gas that you've already pumped. That seemed a little unreasonable.
I still had to find a car wash, so I went across the street to one of those detail places. I ordered the quickest, cheapest wash they had (since my ten minute lunch jaunt had already taken over half an hour). I rode through the washing thing that shoots liquid all over the place and beats your car with rags like the ShamWow guy beats hookers. STG, that was the slowest car wash ever. I was ready to abandon my car and make a break for it, but I didn't think I'd survive the exit without heavy armor. Seriously, haunted houses could take a note from this car wash. It was intense.
I finally saw daylight and was ready to gun it and pick up some freaking food to eat. I didn't realize two little dudes were waiting to dry my car. I tried to wave them off, but they were adamant. I was starving and grumpy and not in the mood to waste anymore of my time. I thought they were finished drying. I really did. Unfortunately for them, my car has what I call the "drug mule" level window tint. I didn't see these nice men in my windows anymore and started to drive off. It was at least thirty yards later that I realized little Javier was still running along side the car trying to dry the rear window. Shit. I can't keep my asshole-osity in check for two fucking minutes.
I left there, making a mental note to never return since they undoubtedly wrote down my license plate number. As I was pulling out of the parking lot to FINALLY get some damn food, my dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree. My car stalled and every possible warning light came on. GDMFSOB! I had effectively paid almost a hundred dollars for a gas tank full of water. All I wanted was a taco, people!
I demand reparation. I want a lifetime supply of Slupees. And gummy sharks. A few dozen bottles of wine wouldn't hurt either. I await your response, 7-Eleven.