Well, it’s official. For the price of one gallon of gas, I could clothe, feed and educate my very own African child for one week. Or buy three king-sized Snickers bars. I am soooo going to hell.
The pumps are now pumping us. And if ever a pump pimp there was, it’s Bush. I cannot express my piss-offedness enough over the fact that the Empty Suit is getting rich off this. Someone really needs to research this theory of mine and call him on his shit. Not me, mind you, but somebody. I don’t have time to save the world — I’ve got a 2-year old.
It’s bad enough that it costs me 60 (gulp) dollars to fill up my tank. But now, I get to watch round old men perched atop their dusty crotch rockets as they reacquaint themselves with the laws of physics. Brotha, if you’re wearing Rockports and a pocket protector, you need to think twice before you whip out the Oakleys and mount that steel horse. The last time these guys took a motorcycle safety course, “Cannonball Run” was in the theaters.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate their efforts at reducing our dependence on foreign oil. But I can’t be held responsible when one of these jokers takes off in fourth gear, pops an Evil Kneivel and catapults himself into the intersection, where I’ll have no choice but to squash him like a toad with my earthfucker.