Thoughts on a Lousy Weekend

I just joined up with this here on-line organization that is made up of individuals infected with my particular brand of insanity. By this, I refer to my newly-reawakened love of elder stereo equipment. In the olden days, we called ourselves 'audiophiles' without irony, despite the fact that we didn't have Ph D's in acting like condescending jackanapes and we knew in our souls that speaker wire was just that - speaker wire. Thicker was better, certainly, but the copper it was made of didn't have to mined on full moons in countries that had never been at war and smelted by Franciscan nuns who only ate sea salt and whole wheat bread and prayed constantly over the wire and kept it aligned with True North at all times. But that's a whole 'nuther rant.

Anyway, I'm enjoying my visit to their discussion forum, and a few of 'em seem to have discovered ol' Wiggy's sekrit other passion - blogging. Seems they have their own tellers of tales there. Hmmph.

So, it got me to thinking. There was something that happened to me just a few short years ago...it was the worst weekend anyone ever had, and it went something like this...

Once upon a time, your hero was a Road Warrior. Flying about 125,000 miles a year, no lie. I would leave home (Denver Metro area) on Sunday morning early, and get home again sometime on Saturday morning. But I was single, and I didn't much care. Besides, I got to see a lot of the country, and some other countries besides. And it paid well.

Well, ya'll may know that ol' Wigwam is a former Marine. I say 'former' by the way, not 'ex'. One is an 'ex' Marine the day they pour dirt on one's face, not before. One 'joins' the Army, but one 'becomes' a Marine. Anyway, on with the story...

Being it was November 9th in Denver, to be followed by the 10th, which is an important day in the Jarhead Calendar, I decided to get together with a fellow Gyrene for our annual jaunt up to the Marine Corps Memorial in Golden, CO on Saturday when I got home. I stopped at the local package store and picked up a short Jack Daniels, as we always liked to snort one or two and then pour a libation for the Fallen. Seemed appropriate, though Wiggy is really not much of a drinker anymore.

Well, at the appointed time, Wiggy drove his 1996 Chevy Lumina up to Golden, picking up the booze and the brother along with way. We made our way to the Memorial, did our Man Dance, and called it a night. I dropped off my friend at home and continued on my way.

It seems that the Chevy was a bit low on petrol, so I decided to stop and get some, since I had to get up early on Sunday to pack and catch my plane outbound. I hate trying to find an open gas station at 4 in the blessed a.m., if you know what I mean.

So, I pulled into the Texaco station at Louisiana and Kipling for those of you who know where Lakewood, Colorado is. I proceeded to gas up the old Chevy.

Seems like a boring, stupid story so far, right? But wait, there's more.

Seems that something had gone wrong with the automatic gas clicker-offer mechanism. You know, the thing that turns off the gasoline when the tank is full (or more likely, when it's still several bucks from being full). It started spewing gasoline out of the fuel filler nozzle and all over the side of my car. I was busy scraping dead bugs off'n the windshield at the time, so it took me a minute to notice that I was standing in a large pool of gasoline, and it was coming from my car.

Yikes!

I ran around the side of the car, which turned out to be a mistake. Because the gasoline had been puddling longer than I thought, and the soles of my cheap rubber shoes had started to dissolve in the chemical goo in sympathy with their dead dinosaur brethren. In other words, it was slippery. And ol' Wigwam went straight up in the air, and landed right smack on his ass in the gas. And of course, it was still spraying out of the side of my car like a crazy little fountain o' love. A gusher of goodness, it was. My tank runneth over.

I finally managed, after a couple of 'turtle on his back' false starts, to get upright again, holding on to the side of the car for dear life and sliding around like a piece of bacon on a hot griddle. I was drenched in gasoline, and all I could think about was the spark that was sure to come, and ol' Wiggy was going to be a flame-sicle.

So, I struggle to the end of the car, and grasp the gasoline nozzle, which is still spraying gas back out of the tank like Linda Blair in The Excorcist. Argh! The stupid thing won't turn off!

You know, you squeeze the little handle, and it lets go of whatever the tiny mechanism is that keeps the thing running, and it STOPS COMING OUT. Well, it didn't. It just kept a'comin'. I gripped and squoze with all my might, but it would not stop coming out.

I finally decided to remove it from my gas tank. Well, guess what? The nozzle on a gas filler, as most Americans know, is covered with a bit metal coil for some reason. And for some inscrutable, 'God Hates Me' reason, it was now clinging tenaciously to the inside of the filler tube on my car, and would not let go...neither would it stop spewing gasoline. If I hadn't already been soaked to the skin by my pratfall, this would have done it.

I finally gave a mighty tug, and out came the nozzle, still spewing. I aimed it up (having no idea where the hell ELSE to aim it) and it sprayed up like a merry little fountain. I threw it on the ground, and it kept gushing gasoline out as fast as it could. I looked around - everyone was staring at me like *I* was demented, but of course no one was doing anything to help me.

I ran, slipped, ran, over to the entrance to the gas station - there was a large 'Emergency Stop' button there on the wall, which I slapped with vigor. There was a guy standing in the entrance to the gas station starting to light a cigarette. I said "Don't like that cigarette, you fool!"

He looked at me with disdain and replied, "It's my body and I'll do what I want to." MORON! I (was at that time) a smoker, and I had used those very same words in reply to people who suggested that they knew better than me how I should live my life. But this shitstain was about to END both our lives by lighting his cigarette. How he could not tell that I was coated from head to toe in gasoline is beyond me. I smacked the cigarette out of his hand and pushed past him to tell the gas station attendant what had happened and why he now had Lake Gaoline on his front apron.

Well, the booger-eatin' moron who was working there stared at me like I was insane. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He finally managed, "Well, I can't give you a refund for the gasoline, sir. You'll have to talk to the owner about that."

"You zipperhead! I'm not talking about a refund! I'm trying to tell you that you have a lake of flammable liquid out there getting ready to make this place into a new Skylab, and you need to notify someone about it!"

He stared at me some more. "Well, my boss is on vacation. I don't have authority to call anyone else."

"Good luck on re-entry, turd!" I muttered as I slipped and slided away.

However, having gained access to my car, I realized that someone was going to blow the place sky-high for real. I mean, gas was everywhere. If the Booger-Eatin' Moron was not going to call the Fire Department, I was going to have to do it.

So, I did. I started up my Chevy (gritting my teeth and praying for no spark), drove off the gas-soaked tarmac, and into the dirt lot next door. I then used my cell phone to call the Lakewood Fire Department and advise them of the situation. I heard sirens headed my way almost before I had turned off the cell phone.

Of course, that's when I realized that I had a half-empty bottle of Jack on the seat next to me, and of course I *had* been drinking, even if it had only been a couple of sips in honor of the occasion. Hmmm. Time to beat a retreat.

As I drove off, I automatically reached in my shirt pocket for a cigarette. What a moron *I* am sometimes! I was still soaked in gasoline, I would'a become a human Zippo in about a tenth of a second! Grrr! I gritted my teeth, tossed the ciggy out the window, and drove home.

When I got home, I had to undress in the front door of my apartment; no way was I going to track that gasoline stench all over my carpets. My neighbors were agog, but I gogged right back at 'em - I was in No Mood.

I entered the apartment buck nekkid, whereupon I tossed said clothes in the washer immediately. Of course, I didn't even think of the fire hazard before I started up the wash, but fortunately there was no enormous Kaboom for my stupidity.

However, as I discovered two washes later: a) gasoline doesn't wash out of clothes all that easily, and b) many clothes are made of cotton, but the stitching used to hold them together is made of nylon or some other similar plasticky substance, which disolves in gasolines. I discovered on the third wash that I now possessed a complete set of 'put-together' clothes. Just sew 'em together, kind of like a kit amplifier!

But it was later that night that really took the cake and made my weekend complete.

You see, if you get soaked in gasoline, there is something you should know. Tender tissue does not like it. Like, say, armpits. Oh yes, and crotchal areas. Very bad. Much pain ensues. Ow-wy. So I had to take about eleventy-dozen showers myself, while my clothes finished dissolving in the washing machine.

By the time I got out of the shower NOT stinking of gasoline, I also had a powerful headache. I aimed to remedy this with a well-deserved cigarette and a large cuppa strong coffee. So I brewed up a pot of Ugly Jacob (TM) brand coffee and poured a steaming cup as soon as it was ready. I lit up my smoke and shuffled in my bathrobe from the kitchen to the living room, brew in one hand, smoke in the other.

It was at that exact moment that I got one of those sudden, uncontrollable, sneezes. You know the kind, they come on you like a Kansas Twister; no warning, it's just happening even as you realize it. You can't stop it, you can't stifle it, and they tend to be explosive.

Scientists and doctors say that you can't keep your eyes open while you sneeze. Defies the laws of physics, is what. But I am hear to tell you that I *saw* with my very own eyes, all of the coffee in my super-large mug o' joe rise up vertically in the air as I sneezed. In ballet-like precision, a column of coffee rose directly in the air, right up towards heaven and a waiting chorus. Unfortunately, the ceiling of my living room got in the way, and all that eternity-bound coffee then came splashing right down upon my punkin haid.

You would think that the trip up and back down again might have cooled it a little, but no. Red-hot coffee, roughly the temperature of Chernobyl, right down my neck, coating my back and front equally well.

I stood there, empty cup in hand, coffee still dripping off the ceiling onto my head, and running off my nose onto the carpet, my skin setting off alarms that would be heard in Bangladesh, and all I could do was laugh.

At least I still had my cigarette. I raised it to my lips, and noticed that it had become soaked in the coffee running down my arm. The fire had gone out. And so, dear readers, has my energy to tell this story.

Always Faithful,

Wiggy