Necessity required that I swing by GhettoGas on my way to work this morning and lo and behold, the condemned, dilapidated shop continued to provide more blog fodder than I know what to do with. The place was packed with an array of hobos, school children and neglectful parents who think it's a good idea to take their toddlers and accompanying tricycles into GhettoGas.
Yeah, you heard me. Tricycles.
Worse, the kid on the trike parked himself IN the front door, prohibiting anyone from entering or exiting. I was the bitch that needed to enter. And I was the bitch who looked bitchier and bitchier everytime I said, "Excuse me."
My voice began all kid-talky, high-pitched, oh-god-don't-hate-me. But after like, 7 "Excuse me's", I was over it.
I finally stepped over the child who remained not oblivious, but uncaring, an approached the cashier with my $20. At GhettoGas, I refuse to insert my credit card at the pump, wisely deeming it too risky. I got in line behind 4 middle school kids, all of whom were purchasing an array of dusty candy and none of whom could complete their transaction for various reasons. One kid didn't have enough money. Another kid rethought his Skittles and went back for something better. A third kid couldn't make up her mind about what kind of Red Bull/Rockstar she wanted. It literally took them 10 minutes to make their way tricycle, still guarding the door as if a look-out for some impending crime.
The hobos, needless to say, just stood around eating their chimichangas from 1973. I guess it was too windy to hang out on their usual crates outside.
I finally made my way back to Pump #8 where my $20 waited to be turned into gas. A woman in an Audi station wagon had pulled in behind me, and as I pumped my gas she gave me a knowing look.
Oh hell no.
Don't comisserate with me, yuppie. You could get me shanked...