Talk about a pain at the pump...

By Jonathan Stinson, Staff writer
(Updated: Friday, June 6, 2008 10:40 AM CDT)

So just when I thought gas prices could not get any worse, the other day while I was trying to fill up my gas-guzzling SUV, so that I could take a trip down to Tuscaloosa to see some friends it decided to hit an all time high.

In fact, I don’t think gas prices will ever be this high again.

I was paying $3.79 for fumes. Yes, fumes, or at least I hope it was fumes, but whatever it was it was, there was defiantly no gas coming out of the pump.

I should have known something was up when only half of the 5 million pumps used to dispense the life blood of America claimed to be operational. The other half were tastefully decorated with yellow plastic bags that said “Thank you, come again,” on them.

That should tell you something right there, the fact that in America we need gas stations that take up more space than Wal-Mart’s parking lot, and not only do we need one but there were three more across the street. All of this so we can keep the wheels turning.

After I realized that the pump was actually not pumping anything at all I pressed the call button, which immediately sent a radio signal bouncing off 14 satellites in space and finally ending up 500 miles away where the gas station attendant was located inside of the command center of this small petroleum exporting country . The conversation went something like this:

“So, I guess the pumps aren’t working, huh?” I said.

“What?”

“I tried to pump some gas and there isn’t any gas coming out.”

“Huh?”

“There is no gas coming out of your pumps, but its charging me money for it.’

“Oh, well I guess I’m going to have to bag the rest of them. Sorry.”

Now I had only been charged 15 cents, but when I looked around there were plenty of people who had been standing around watching the price gauge hit about $30 or $40. So, me being the good journalist that I am, I had to go see if they were getting any gas.

I climbed back into my truck and drove 10 miles to the other end of the gas station and asked an older gentlemen if his pump was giving him any gas.

The man looked at me like I was losing it and said “Yeah, it’s pumping, just doing it really slow.”

I waited a second and the he goes, “Oh, wait a minute, no it’s not pumping anything.”

This realization slowly made its way across the island. I decided to get out of there when a mob started make its way toward the command center. If I were the stations attendant I would have put a little plastic bag on the outside of the door handles that said, “Thank you, come Again,” and then locked myself in the backroom.

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