Petrol Please

"Check Gage (you stupid idiot)"

If my friend Eric is out there somewhere, he will distinctly remember the hot summer day that we were on our way to a tee time (with visions of 65 in our heads) when our plans were put to an abrupt halt because my car puttered out on the toll road due to lack of fuel. We had to walk a mile in our colorful polo shirts and pleated shorts to the petroleum oasis. Check Gage (you stupid idiot).

If my ex-girlfriend Natalie is out there, she will remember having to drive 15 miles- a week after we broke up- to bring me gas because my cell phone had died and she was the only number that I could remember off the top of my head. Check Gage (you stupid idiot).

Last night, this stupid idiot, once again, forgot to check the gage.

I should clarify. It's not that I forget to check the gage. It's for two other reasons that this quandary continues to appear in my life:

1. I detest getting gas. Therefore, I put it off as long as humanly possible. Obviously, a little too long at times. It is not any fun to spend 40 dollars and waste 10 minutes of my life at the filthy, god-forsaken location that is a gas station.

2. My car tells me the exact mileage I can drive until the tank is parched. The common thought is that this would be helpful to person with my unique deficiency. Wrong. If I know I have "2 MILES TO EMPTY," you can bet your house I am going to try and make 3. The problem is that sometimes my car is a dirty, rotten liar. It tricks me. "2" often (apparently) means two-tenths.

Running out of gas is far less embarrassing when you do it by yourself in the car. Unfortunately, that's not the way it went down this time. My friends Liz and Neel jump in the car at 11:55 at night very excited to get home and go sleep before the next day's work and vroo........vrooooooo...vroooooppppsssssmmmmm....rattlle..rattle.... $%@*^!!!!!!!!

That walk was fun. Neel got the opportunity to repay me for every single time I have called him an idiot and he enjoyed every second of it.

Let's pause for a second and re-live this gem:
Neel: Hey man- did I leave my putter on the last hole?
Blake: It's in your hand you f-ing moron.
Neel: I guess I deserved that.

And Liz? Oh yeah...she got to do this no less than a month ago. I swear I don't do it that much. It just happens at really bad times. But, is there a good time to run out of gas?

Portable gas canisters at your local gas stations are the ultimate example of supply and demand. You are out of gas. Your car is a considerable distance away from the gas dispenser. You need to bring the precious nectar to your automobile. What the hell else are you going to do? Carry it in a milk carton? I am quite sure that is illegal for good reason. They could charge $95 dollars for those 2 gallon containers and I would have no choice but to pull out the plastic. I have probably spent close to 60 dollars on those cans during my time as a license holder.

Yet again, I am asking the attendant where those beautiful red containers are located and making my way sheepishly back to my car with $2.46 cents worth of gas. As I pour, the annoying, drunk, female bar patron sitting outside next to my car says, "Ewww, that gas smells awful," in an annoying, drunk, female bar patron voice and I want to crawl into a hole. Not only am I showing the Central West End that I ran out of gas, I am spilling it all over the ground and my hands because the expensive canister is most definitely malfunctioning.

I get home, exit my car that now smells like a putrid combination of gas and fish (see: Fishing on a Monday), and walk inside. My roommate, Mike, says, "Dude, you smell awful. What happened?"

Piss off.