When I go down to Oregon in an MGA I hate it when I have to gas up.
It is a race between me and the pump jockey. I have to jump out of the car
(which I do not accomplish in as agile a fashion as I used to, given that the
car is a coupe - more like open door, fall out of car, pick self up than
leaping out in one smooth motion) before the sadistic son of a bitch has a
chance to try and twist the gas cap off like it was a large bottle cap.
I have tried talking to them, but while I am sure some pump jockeys are
future heads of industry, passing the time in their first paying job, most are
not of that calibre. I recall telling one kid not to twist the gas cap, and he
nodded and said OK - and then twisted the gas cap off. Had
she-who-must-be-obeyed not been present, I'd have likely ended the kid's short
and
undistinguished career then and there, which would have had the advantage of
stopping him
before he could reproduce, but the not inconsiderable disadvantage of
sending me to durance vile for the next few years (what would you get in
Oregon for
strangling a pump jockey that violated your MG - surely that is extreme
provocation?)
Bill
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