On Malt Liquor and Gas Station Men. I do not know if I have mentioned this before or not, but I hate the gas station. I wish we still had full service gas stations at every corner where the village idiot would come, and ever so sweetly check out your car's stats and refuel it. You never even had to leave the vehicle, and all of this cost a few bucks in tip.

I assure you, that if I knew where a full service gas station was, I would NEVER refuel myself.

My dear friend has been pleading with me that I never return to gas stations, as I have terrible luck with them. And it is true, I have terrible luck. Case in point, my newest gas station acquaintance, Red.

There I am, standing about, pumping gasoline into my vehicle. When across the breezeway, a motorist who was equipped with a silver Ford Focus with several Decals on and about it, who was sporting a baseball cap and a white wifebeater, so that every one of his twenty-two tattoos could be seen decided to strike up a conversation.

Strange Motorist:Hello.
Me:(Ignoring the truly tragic fellow)
Strange Motorist:Hello.
Me:Hello.
Strange Motorist:You look beautiful
Me: Thanks.
Strange Motorist:Can I get your number?
Me:I am sorry, but my phone number comes with a one drink minimum. (Turns back to strange motorist)

A few minutes pass, I feel that strange motorist must have gotten the hint, and am very pleased with the prospect that I will never have to see that giant fuck again. When along comes strange motorist, bearing a gas station gift.

Strange Motorist: Here, I brought you this. (Which happened to be a bottle wrapped in a paper bag, with his phone number written on the outside)
Me:What?
Strange Motorist:My name is Red. Like the color. And you are?
Me:Suzanne.
Strange Motorist:Nice to meet you Susanne, So are you going to call me sometime, and let me take you out? We will get something real good to eat.
Me:(Evaluating the potential suitor in full, and noting the two female names that I can visibly read that are located about his body.) Oh. Right. Okay.
Strange Motorist: Well, call me. Do you promise to call?
Me: (no words can possibly flow out of my mouth.)
Strange Motorist:Bye.
Me:Yes. Bye.

As strange motorist pulled away, I dared to unwrap his gift. A bottle of Colt 45 Malt Liquor. I immediately disposed of the 'treasure' and am doing my best to block out the horror of it all.

Which leads me to my guest blog, Men who try to date women they clearly cannot afford.  ¶ 10:27 AM