Actually, I tend to let shit like this roll off my back, but sometimes, I just get tweaked.
I’m in charge of my wife’s car this week while she is back east. Apparently the right front tire has a slow leak, so I just needed to pull into the ol’ Shell station and spend two minutes (if that) to pump it up. When I get there, there’s already two cars blocking the little service island where the air, water and vacuum cleaners are. One person is doing a Felix Unger on her car so I know that will take a while.
Oh, but that other person. What business she has being let out in public is beyond me.
I’ll go right out on a limb and comfortably stereotype her has a “SUV Driving Soccer Mom” (not to get too FatherJohn-ish or anything). First she spends about ten minutes reading the directions on the pump, which consist of “Press Button.” I thought of getting out to help her sound it out.
Next she crouchs down next to her tire, and begins the actual air pumping. I’m assuming. Because she was down there for 15 full minutes. I’m crapping you negative.
Fifteen fucking minutes to put air in your tire?? Were you planning on turning your Bravado into a hot air balloon?? She had to pop up and press the button again three times.
She finally finishes up with that tire, which I’m pretty sure must have been pumped up to around 1,000,000 psi, and I’m hoping this isn’t a full service treatment.
No friggin’ luck - until she apparently gave up on this complicated contraption known as an air pump while filling the second tire.
Finally, I think as she hops into the driver seat. At this point I’m idling in the middle of the parking lot, fixing a stare at her. There’s no way she didn’t know I was waiting to get in there.
Now I ask you, gentle-dopers, what would you do? Twere me, I’d back out of the space and give the next guy a turn. But oooooooooh no. Not this fucking waste of skin. She needs to sit in her tank-on-wheels and wipe her hands off, clean her glasses, apply her make up, yell at her kid, and construct a ship in a bottle for all I know.
By this time my head is about six shades of red, I’m beating my steering while like a red-headed step-child, and screaming curse words I didn’t even think I knew (it may have been Esperanto, I’m not sure).
And wouldn’t you know it, the woman in the next spot who was detailing her Chevette left before her. And, I was in, had the tire pumped, and out … and this fucking moron in the SUV still hadn’t vacated the spot!!
I’m better now, but, ooooh, was I pissed.
Bah, this must be a long week, I never get this surly. Asshole.
Your wife’s car wasn’t parked on the street outside of zyzz’s, was it? Cuz that’s where mine was when both my passenger side tires got stabbed. That was the Week of Four Flat Tires.
I hear ya. I was lucky, the place right down the street on Mission had a wonderfully helpful employee that put air in my tires for me, and even offered to put my spare on if necessary.
Nah, zyzz thought I got tire stabbed too, but it’s a slow leak. I discovered it a few days ago, but haven’t gotten around to doing anything about it, other than pumping it up every few days (these days I don’t even find myself in the vicinity of the car that often anyway). Like I said, I am a busy man.
If it makes ya feel any better, I’m currently serving 15 years in prison for clubbing a woman over the head with a tire iron 'cuz she took too long to fill up her tire. So at least you have better control of your temper than I do.
However, I managed to get acquittal for the terrorism charges I got when I pointed a paper gun at someone…
Just as a matter of information…Any of the big outlet stores sells air pumps that plug into your Cig lighter. You never have to wait for idiots when you own one of them…
Plan B: Hop out when she is reading the instructions. Ask her if you could help with the tire fill. Perhaps have a nice conversation. Perhaps even get the job done earlier.
Why did you pass up the opportunity to let the air out of her tire while you aired yours up. The complete look of bafflement on the poor soles face would have caused a giggle in even the most cranky person.
