I was coming home the other day from Sydney and belting up the freeway north. It was Friday, also known as Gronkday, and the freeway was busy. Tradies trying to get home, families trying to get away, and everyone driving like the retards they are because Gronkday.
Yes, I was driving. I do that when I have to carry stuff that doesn’t fit into motocycle saddlebags.
And I needed petrol. No issue. The twin-servos halfway home is a regular stop of mine. I pull in and it’s very busy. Cars are lining up for petrol, which thanks to the ongoing liberation of Iran by its well-meaning friends in Israel and the USA, is once again hideously expensive. But what price Freedom, right?
Anyway, I pull in behind a blue Golf, which is parked at the rear petrol pump. The petrol pump in front is vacant. Obviously, the vehicle that used it has moved on while the Golf driver was inside paying for their fuel. No biggie. He or she will be out shortly, the Golf will drive off, I shall pull up to the front pump and leave the rear pump for the bloke in the jacked-up Ford Ranger behind me to use. It’s how this petrol-etiquette rolls, right?
So I wait. And wait. And wait some more. I turn off my ignition. My hatred for the absent Golf driver begins to gnaw at my insides. The fuck are you doing, champion?
The bloke in the Ford Ranger also turns his ignition off. There are cars lined up behind him and there are cars lined up at the other the pumps, but they are getting through bit by bit. Not at my set of pumps. The blue Golf sits empty and we sit behind it.
Maybe the driver has gone for a shit? Maybe there’s a problem with the cashier? Maybe the fucker is buying snacks inside the petrol station? I can kinda see the cashier from where I am, but while there are people there, the line seems to be moving along OK.
I wait some more. It’s been some 15 minutes now. That is a long time to sit in a petrol station. Cars that pulled in with me and gone to other pumps have long departed.
I decide I have had enough. I am not blessed with much patience at the best of times, and that allotment has now gone, because this is not remotely the “best of times”.
I start my car, manage to squeeze pass the Golf to the front pump, and park next to it. Yes, I am a bit far side-on from the pump…well, actually I am a lot far side-on from the pump, and now the Golf is kinda boxed in behind me and the Ford Ranger. I have reversed back and he has driven forward. Nice.
I start to fill my car. As I am doing that, two grossly overweight women, obviously a mum and daughter, come waddling across the petrol station forecourt, making for the blue Golf.
In their arms they are clutching multiple large bags of Hungry Jacks (Burger King for my US readers) and slurping on giant-sized drinks – a true feat of multi-tasking given the load they are each carrying, both their own physical one and the burgers/fries/nuggets bags.
I stop pumping petrol into my car and stare at them. In pure atavistic hatred. Did you vast sweaty whale-bitches actually just park your car at the petrol pump in a super-busy servo, and waddled off to feed your fatness? Is that what I am seeing here? Yes, the fuck it is. You did not, like normal human fucken beings, pay for your petrol, drive your car two hundred metres to the Hungry Jacks, go inside and feed for the next three hours, did you?
Nor did you consider maybe just using the Drive-Thru, huh? That would have saved you from levering your gross bulk into and out of the car yet again, and you could have shoved all that rancid shit into your mouths as you fucked off up the freeway to your next fast-food feeding frenzy.
No. You parked your car at the petrol pump in a crowded servo, and waddled off a like a brace of greasy hippos to get the 500,000 calories you need to ingest every two hours lest you get hangry and depressed – and I’ll bet good money you told each other you could do with the fucken stroll.
Yep. That is precisely what you did, you disgusting lard-sacks.
But now you’re fat arses are mine.
The she-hogs levered their trembling bulks into the Golf, arranged their food bags about themselves, started their engine…and then realised they could not leave until I moved my car. They could not reverse because the bloke in the gigantic Ford Ranger had blocked them in. He was across their shit as much as I was. We even exchanged a look across their Golf. Fuck them, that look said. We have already been here nearly half-an-hour. We’re both good to drag this out some more. We were karmic brothers now. It was beautiful.
I went back to pumping petrol into my car. This took some time. I had to make sure it was full, right? A man can’t have a car with a petrol tank not positively brimming with expensive petrol as he heads north. Hell, the next servo might be a long way away, and its petrol might even be more expensive.
Then I had to clean the inside of the petrol hatch. Can’t have drops of fuel accumulating there. That’s just not safe. Oh, and would you look at my windscreen? That could do with a clean. Might as well do the back window too. But you need fresh water and detergent on each pass, otherwise it will just smear the glass.
The fat bitches stared at me with all the venomous, saturated-fat hatred they could generate as I went very methodically about my business. They were trapped like obese rats. And yes, they were feeding themselves. Of course they were. Can’t let that shit get cold, right? The petrol pumps could erupt in flame and these sows would continue to feed as the flames consumed them.
There were other drivers behind the Ford Ranger who had got out of their cars to see what the delay was, but the Ford Ranger driver was obviously explaining to them what was going on. I saw smiles and head-nods. These people could certainly appreciate karma when they saw it in action.
Shame there were no airhoses next to the petrol pumps like there used to be. Because I would have done all of my tyres and the spare in the boot. Might even have taken it out of the boot to inspect it.
Then as I walked in to pay for my petrol, I felt I should certainly relieve myself and give my hands a good and thorough washing. Cleanliness is, after all, next to Godliness, and the good Lord knows I could do with more of that. So I did just that after paying for my petrol.
Eventually, I emerged from the petrol station and started walking back to my car and the traffic jam behind it. The Ranger driver gave me a thumbs-up and a grin. The fat bitches were staring daggers at me and still chewing like crazy. I stared directly at them as I walked towards my car. Then delivered the coup de grâce. I stopped, then squatted down to do up a boot-lace that was not undone. That took a bit of time. Seems I had forgotten my ancient knot-craft for a second or two. It happens. I am not young anymore.
I got back in my car, and it took a little bit of time to put on my seat-belt, connect my phone to its charger pack, enable Bluetooth, wait for the car to pair with my phone, and then find that killer Chris Stapleton track, The Bottom, which I like so much. Adjust the volume just so, maybe a touch more bass, and I was ready to go.
I even gave the lard-hogs a bit of a cheery wave as I idled away, because I was in a much, much better mood than I was when I first came into the servo.
