Fuel Price Fables

Once upon a time, in a land not far from this one (O.K.—pretty much right fuckin’ HERE and pretty much right fuckin’ NOW!), “The Media” were ALL OVER a story about falling oil prices, $2.00 per gallon gasoline prices, happy days are here again, etc. People were dancing in the skreets, doing the Hitler Jig all the way to their respective SUX-6000 dealer (shameless “Robocop” reference) to trade in their Econo-Shite-Box for some good ole’ American Big Steel; gasoline was flowing in the gutters, and all you had to do was to pick a biscuit offa your biscuit tree, walk out into the skreet, and dip long & deep. “How Low Can You Go?”—the party song about the Limbo, was making its way to the top of the airwaves again; in short, as long as you weren’t in some way connected to the petroleum industry, you were one happy Mo-Fo!

But—in the spirit of ALL things of late it seems—someBODY other than you, me, and all the OTHER working class schmucks, had the last laugh queued up in the batter’s box. Here in Kalifornia, filling stations are installing those new electronic price signs—the ones where the price digits are constantly spinning like the #’s in a Vegas slot machine; where they stop nobody knows!

And as usual, the media aren’t talking about how they FUCKED UP ROYALLY in reporting how the prices were gonna keep on dropping; nope, it’s like those stories of Hope & Change never existed! I blame that evil demon Ben Dover at work here yet again, the result being a virtual laugh RIOT ever’ time you or I drive by our favorite Gas Emporium—about as funny as a man with a wooden leg in a forest fire, ain’t it?

I guess that sub-fiddy dollar fill-up on my 2001 SUV was just a fuckin’ dream; meanwhile, all’s we’re hearing TODAY is how prices are gonna go up in the Spring (“adjusted” for seasonal driving habits; in other words—”This is ME fucking YOU in the doodie hole—WITHOUT a reach-around”); prices are STILL a buck a gallon lower than this time last year, blah blah blah.

You know what it reminds me of? It reminds me of when your wife or girlfriend goes on all day long about the hum-job you’re gonna get that night; then when you get home, she’s conked out on the sofa, snoring like Curly of The Three Stooges…

This is me—Dick E. Jones—goin’ down to the courthouse THIS very week to legally change MY name, so EVERY time I pay for gas from that day forward, I can hand my Visa card to the filling station attendant and give him/her my message:



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