So I leave the house this morning — already in a black and foul mood because my main hard drive crashed on my Mac and none of the utilities I’ve run have been able to recognize any ATA device on the computer — when I notice my fuel gauge is almost at “E” and the little warning light has come on. These days, as all of you know, going to the gas station for a fill-up is a joy beyond description.
I drive into my neighborhood Shell station, a few blocks from my house, and start filling up. Regular, this time, ’cause the gas that actually makes my car run better is priced outrageously high. This particular gas station has installed those new pumps with the cute little TV monitors so that the customers become hypnotized by the idiot tube while they’re getting gang raped. As I’m walking away to go inside to buy a pack of smokes, out of the corner of my ear, I hear a lady’s voice coming from PumpTV advising me to stop smoking. She proceeds to give me an 800 number to call, and a web address, where I can “quit now.” Thanks.
It’s not enough to charge me four fucking dollars and
eleven seventeen point nine cents for a gallon of gas; I now have to hear a lecture about the dangers of smoking. What’s next? Advice for the love-lorn? Shell Oil Co., here’s a clue: Save the money you spent on the stupid TV monitors and lower the price a few cents. And, oh, please: go fuck yourselves.