The universe is telling me to go fuck myself. I venture out on my own for lunch on my KLR650. Normally I take lunch with people that quietly loathe me, so I decided to unburden them from the mysterious obligation that compels them to keep inviting me along. It’s windy as hell out here. The bike is getting a bit squirrelly. Traffic has stopped ahead of me, I ease off the throttle, pull the clutch, and coast to the stop. Just as I arrive, the light changes and I release the clutch and throttle up…and nothing. Engine is dead, I’m drifting into the intersection. Cars are honking. I come to a complete halt exactly in the middle of the crossroads. Light turns yellow. Fuck. I start backing up to get out of the way. Easier to walk it back than forward. I flip the reserve gas switch on the side of the bike. I’m assuming I ran out of gas. I try to start the bike and nothing happens. After a few tries it starts up again. Damn this bike and its lack of a fuel gauge. All is well.

I continue on my way. There’s an AM/PM in my hood, so I stop there to fill up. The pumps now have retrofitted ATM card readers now! Yay, no more talking to humans at the counter and guesstimating, poorly, the amount of fuel to put on the pump. No more going to a central processing station to figure out how to choose a pump and use my card and forgetting a step and spending twenty minutes cursing AM/PM for not having normal goddamned card reading pumps! So I swipe my card in the shiny new device that’s crammed awkwardly into the old school pump. I tap my digits in, but the machine had serious lag issues. Like 2 second delay between the press and the responding beep. Whatever, it’s done. I confirm my 35 cent “convenience” fee, grab the pump, cram it into the tank, squeeze the trigger, and it breaks. The trigger snaps off the pump and drops to the ground. Wtf! 

I go inside to complain. The guy comes out and fiddles with the pump handle for like 5 minutes before he tells me to use the other pump. I push the Kawasaki to the other side. I swipe my card…nothing. It says “see cashier inside.” Fuck you pump. Fuck you AM/PM, and fuck the universe. I’ll go somewhere else! Goddamnit!

A 1/2 mile down the road I hit Kietzke, take a left and find another gas station right before the freeway. Perfect. As I pull into the station there’s a fucktard in a Lexus backing out of the pumping area instead of driving through. He looks confused. He’s blocking my access to the pumps. What in the hell is wrong with this guy? I weasel around him. He continues to look baffled. I swipe my card. I pick the cheap grade gas. I cram the pump into my tank and sure as shit, it works. I gaze over at the idiot trying to drive and then back at my bike. Gas is spraying out the side of the pump where the rubber gasket sits. There’s gas all over my tank bag, the tank, and the instrument panel. WTF is going on?! I swear a bit too loudly. I try to find some goddamned paper towels. None. Six dispensers, all empty. I go into the shop and tell the guy working there that his pump is fucked and there’s no towels. He hands me three napkins.

The universe has it in for me today. Thinking maybe I’ll walk home from work tonight. Why risk it? 


About heartajack

I'm a graphic designer and occasional filmmaker that recently discovered the awesomeness that is the Can-Am Spyder Roadster. In recent years I've become obsessed with food and learning how to prepare it. I make the best damn ribs...EVER.
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2 Responses to FML

  1. Jack, your tales of woe always make me giggle. Not at your misfortune, but your delivery.

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