Wow. The spirit of the season is incredible, like sparkling snowflakes falling all over my head! Ho! Ho! Ho! See, yesterday morning I filled up with gas and went to work. Eight hours later . . .
I'm driving down 17th Street and pull into the left turn lane. I am six cars back from the red light, when what to my wondering eyes should appear? A blue minivan loaded with a mom and her passel of kids, my dear.
She stops beside me and points to my gas tank, mouthing: YOUR GAS CAP IS OFF!
I glance into my side mirror with Jingle Bells in my head. Sure enough, my gas cap is dangling and the tank door is wide open. See what I mean? The joyful holiday spirit even courses through the hustling, bustling air of traffic. It fills me like hot chocolate.
Good deed accomplished, the mama and her passel drive on up to the red light. Then another car drives up and stops beside me.
YOUR GAS TANK, the guy mouths, pointing frantically toward my rear quarter panel.
I wassail in the key of candy canes and mistletoe. "Yes, I kno-o-o-ow, I kno-o-o-ow."
The driver moves forward to get in line at the red light. And then comes Car #3. The gangsta inside mouths: BEEOTCH, ROLL DOWN YO WINDOW! With his eyebrows pinched, I'm thinking he's cranky. Or he thinks I'm a dumbass.
"Yeah, no," I say, my holiday cheer gleaming like a silver tree bulb that's just cracked.
YOUR GAS CAP IS OFF THE HOOK! The gangsta is like Kanye. His mouth is moving, but all I'm getting is a steaming pile of reindeer pooh.
"Thanks for telling me what I already know!" I give him two thumbs up as he drives off but think, Did somebody put out an APB? Now you're just making me look bad, people!
Once again, another car stops beside me. It's a guy and his wife, both about 110. The geezer jabs at the air with big-knuckled, crooked fingers. His unnatural fish lips seem to gulp air as he mouths: YOUR GAS CAP! CHRIST-A-MIGHTY, HOW DID YOU EVEN GET A LICENSE?!
"Joy to the world, old people! Okay?"
Finally the light changes to green, and I follow the six cars in front of me through the intersection. I speed past everybody for about two miles. One car tries to pass me, and I look straight ahead when he honks three times.
Jingle Bells, Santa smells, Rudolph ran away.
I stop at another red light to make a left turn into Wally World, and a ponytailed 20-elfin-something stops beside me, even though she has a bright Christmasy green light. She rolls down her window and shouts, "Your gas cap!"
I can't believe the world is paying this much attention to me, and I shake my head at the absurdity. It's like I'm driving naked.
"Yes it is!" Elfin yells. "It's off!" She curls her lip, a gift that indicates I truly am a classic dumbass.
Bah, humbug.
Elfin hits the gas, just as the light turns red.
And then, surprise. A Jeep pulls up beside me. The driver turns his head toward me, and I scream, "I KNOW my gas cap is off! I GET IT already! O holy-fucking-night!"
The guy looks aghast. I realize it's because he hasn't noticed my gas cap at all. He stares at me like I'm Scrooge's Grim Reaper. Which I am. That, and a dumbass. I have just killed Christmas.
Schwetty Balls
Schwetty Balls
It's Christmas ti-i-i-ime to get petty.
Ring-a-ling . . .
Yeah, the spirit is glopping all over my head, like cold turkey gravy. How's yours going?
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