|I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Dear God, I'm sick of this.|
So I'm driving through Iowa, which has gas stations called Kum & Go. Um, yeah. And I stop to get some gas and a very unfortunate burrito because it's the middle of Iowa (not to mention the middle of the night), and I'm hungry. I try to give the seemingly weird dude behind the counter the benefit of the doubt since he is stuck as a late night convenience store clerk.
Wrong idea. I said hello, and immediately he asked me if I was ready for the weekend. What does that mean? I don't even know what day it is, I'm in middle America, and I'm eating gas station food.
Then he said, "So where are you from?" Is it that obvious? "I live in Boston." I really have to learn to stop offering people information, but you will see in a moment why it doesn't matter what I say. He presses, "But where are you from?" "I drove in from L.A.," I replied, getting annoyed. "Are you from L.A.?" I finally explain that no, I'm from the Midwest and actually used to live in Iowa. "What year did you graduate from college?" By now, I'm completely fed up. He takes this opportunity to inspect my credit card (a lesson: pay overly attentive pervs in cash, ladies) and looks up at me as he exclaims, "Your name sounds like a porno name!" It's not, asshole. It's my real name. "Is that why you came from L.A.? Is this a porno name?" "Can I nuke my burrito in the microwave?" I asked as I walked towards the back counter, trying to speed up my exit.
I figured he would stay behind his platform. Again, wrong assumption. He walks over to me, carrying a newspaper he has decided to give me. He's muttering something about the women on the front of it, saying they look like me, and at some point during all of this, he says, "You sure are a cute little thing."Can you please keep your person and your Kum & Go vest behind your dingy little counter, dickwad? I'm trying to warm my hideous meal and leave.
Finally, the bell dings, and I grab my overheated burrito. It's burning my hand, but I'm trying desperately to get out of the door with my bottled coffee, water, that stupid newspaper, and some fake Mexican food for the rest of the night's sojourn. As I'm struggling with the door and the knowledge that this man knows my real name, which is inconveniently plastered all over the Internet for reasons that are the exact opposite of "porno", he calls to me one last time, "I sure do hope to meet you again someday." Sir, you couldn't pay me to come back to your little shop of horrors, and if you have any sense, I'd suggest you stay where you are.