Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is mad as not-heaven, and she's probably going to continue taking it indefinitely, because she doesn't like confrontations.
This afternoon, after the weekly trip to The Devil's Playground, I stopped by the gas station chicken store to pick up a couple of the cheap scratch-off tickets to put in the #1 son's letter tomorrow. I need to get to the Dollar Tree and grab some more cheap cards, because the $5 scratchers will fit in them, but not in an envelope.
So there I was, standing at the register with one corn dog in my hand, for The Pony's lunch, and waiting behind a guy who had chicken, a couple of 20 oz drinks, a pack of cigarettes, and a carton of chocolate milk. All was right with the world. Just a scene from a gas station chicken store, two customers waiting to pay, another behind them at the chicken counter, and the clerk ringing up the items and asking if the customer wanted a bag.
In comes the GAS MAN. He's in capitals, because he was so important. In his own mind, that is. He came through the door, started down the middle aisle to come around and get in line, took a glance at the two of us waiting, and the chicken man picking up his order before queuing up...and stopped. GAS MAN whipped out his checkbook. Yes. That's right. His checkbook. To pay for gas. And stepped up to the short side of the counter next to the door. Let the record show that the short side of the counter is NOT where transactions are made.
GAS MAN scribbled across his check. It's not like he had a twenty in his hand, ready to lay on the counter for $20 of gas. He scribbled some more. Stood expectantly. The clerk bagged the dude's purchases ahead of me...
AND TURNED TO THE GAS MAN, ASKED IF HE NEEDED ANYTHING ELSE, THEN PROCEEDED TO RING HIM UP!
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not a happy camper. She had a good mind to clear her throat loudly, but with that being so sore from the plague she picked up at work after Jewel snatched her water bottle by the neck, she did not think that was a good idea.
Any other self-respecting Hillmomba redneck hovering around the side counter to fork over his fuel payment would have said, "Oh, I think that lady was ahead of me." But not GAS MAN. He had achieved his goal. Which was to cut in line.
I was sorely tempted to shove the corn dog across the ticket counter and walk out, saying "I don't think I need this bad enough to wait past what should have been my turn." But I didn't think of it, and The Pony needed his corn dog, and #1 needed his tickets.
I wish I was a bit of a spitfire, like Maureen O'Hara in her heyday, the Quiet Man years, perhaps, so I could have raised a ruckus, stamped my foot, shook my flaming red hair, and shouted, in my no-nonsense Irish brogue: "Who d'ya hafta swing your balls at around here to get the service ya deserve?"
Let the record show that such a statement is not a direct quote from Maureen O'Hara.