I managed to bump my head on the ceiling of my car fairly hard this morning. When I pulled out of my house, I noticed I was desperately out of gas. I was not even sure if I would make it to the 7-11, so I decided to swing by the Crack-Head gas station, which is just a bit closer. This is a shabby gas stations that always has a few bums or crack heads sitting about its premises forlornly. I usually avoid this place because if you stand out there for more then thirty seconds, someone will eventually hobble up to you and ask you for money or cigarettes.
So I pulled up and noticed that every single pump had an OUT OF GAS sign hanging on the handle. Annoyed, I turned to back out and somehow managed to hit a rather high curb. I heard a horrible noise and at the same time I was propelled up and my head hit the ceiling hard enough to hurt. It pissed me off and I drive to work grumpily. Luckily I drive a Saturn and since most of the car is plastic any damage it suffered probably popped back out like a Rubbermaid trash can.
Last night I took my mother out for a belated mothers day dinner. I wanted to try a new place that opened in downtown Sanford, some steak palce. While I was waiting for my mom I had a beer at the pub. The bartender informed me in low tones that the reviews she heard about that place was the food was good, however the service was ‘iffy’.
Turns out she was right. The food was excellent, my steak was so big and delicious and juicey and had been rubbed and smoked and whatever they do to it that it did not require any kind of steak sauce. The onion rings were made with some sort of tasty batter that was divine.. However, our server was a bit of a drag. He reminded me of a homosexual heroine addict. He managed to take our order and serve us with a foppishly snooty demeanor that I found annoying. The food, however, made up for it, and I would go back there again.
One of the cats came in last night with a big rusty nail hanging from his collar. Since that whole plan failed I’m off to harbor freight this weekend to get a cat trap. Anyone want an icky shedding limpy cat? Otherwise its getting dumped in some woods somewhere.
2026 Update
Dialing back to February 5, 2008 — Ed boinks his head, eats a heroic steak, and threatens a cat with a woodland vacation.
Ah, 2008. A simpler world, where a man with a plastic Saturn and a gas gauge could gamble his morning commute on a vaguely threatening station. Nowadays that same drive would involve a smartphone map, real-time pump status, and possibly a rental scooter. The 'Crack-Head' station is probably a boutique coffee stand now, or at least has a QR code for a rewards app. Your head bump would be recorded by the car's driver-monitoring camera and used to offer you a coupon for a chiropractor. Restaurant intel has also degraded: instead of a bartender muttering about 'iffy' service, we now suffer 4,000 online reviews, each from someone who was personally offended by the bread basket. And the steak? That glorious, sauce-defying slab would cost a small fortune and arrive with a backstory about grass-fed ancestors and a smoked-on-site philosophy. The cat with a nail in its collar, meanwhile, would become a neighborhood Facebook icon before being microchipped, neutered, and returned to you with a bill. You, Ed, were a man who almost made it to work with your skull intact and your dignity in the trunk. My kind of witness.
“2008 Ed, after nearly running out of gas, slamming into a curb, and whacking your skull on the ceiling, did you still think the real problem was that you drive a Saturn, or did you need the giant steak just to feel alive?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2008 Ed: So, Beelzebubba, the Saturn ain't the real problem, though it does handle like a Tupperware sled with ambition. The real problem is me, apparently, because I keep driving to the one gas station in Sanford where the pumps are decorative. Whacking my head on the ceiling was just the universe reminding me that cheap cars have thin roofs. And yeah, that steak... egads, that steak. It wasn't just food, it was a personal apology from the universe for every curb, cat, and gas gauge I've ever dealt with. I almost felt alive, or at least less dead. The server had all the warmth of a heroin-chic mannequin, but the meat made up for it. As for the limpy cat, I'll probably keep the dumb thing. I'm too soft-hearted, or too lazy, one of the two. Now if you'll excuse me, my head hurts and I have a date with a Harbor Freight cat trap.
