The Pony is a menace to propriety.
Wednesday evening we stopped by the gas station chicken store to pick up some PowerBall tickets. The jackpot was $348 million, you know. And since I was there anyway, I figured I might as well have a paltry 32 oz Diet Coke. The Pony wanted a bottle of Sprite to accompany his Domino's pizza that we would be picking up next.
Because a doofus old geezer was sitting in his car in MY preferred parking space, with his back-up lights on, but not backing up in the two minutes I waited on him...I had to park around at the side, by the dumpster and the air hose.
When I rounded the corner of the building, wouldn't you know it? Not a car in sight. Anywhere. Not at the pumps, not at the end, and not in MY parking space. Darn that geezer all to heck!
I grabbed a Sprite out of the cooler, and bellied up to the soda fountain to fill my 32 oz Diet Coke. Still nobody. Just me and the week-old clerk (not her age, her length of employment) and the chicken gal. I put my sodas on the counter and asked for six PowerBall tickets, in two and two and two. That means she was supposed to print them two numbers to a ticket. For me, The Pony, and Genius. Hick is on his own.
Of course that little gal messed it up. She printed SIX individual number tickets. Maybe she couldn't hear me, what with a chicken customer coming in and hollering a greeting at the top of her lungs to the chicken gal. I swear. People in that establishment have no sense of proper decorum.
I took my bounty out to T-Hoe. With a soda in each hand, as well as my change, and trying to hold onto those six fluttering future tickets to paradise...I could not open my door. As I walked up to T-Hoe, I told The Pony, "Open your door."
The Pony opened, and reached for his Sprite. I let go, and was opening my hand to give him the coins to put in the cup on the console, when that rear door of T-Hoe snapped on my hand like a rusty bear trap.
Metal is stronger than Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's paper-thin flesh and brittle bone. But she still has her catlike ninja reflexes. I yanked my hand back just before the door slammed. But just after the metal edge clonked my palm at the bottom of the thumb where it turns into wrist.
SWEET GUMMI MARY THAT SMARTED!
The Pony opened up the door and said he was sorry. But he didn't kiss the booboo to make it better. Mrs. HM may or may not have done some rassen frassen about the pain as she cradled her wounded wing while careful not to slop her 32 oz Diet Coke. A few tears of pain relief later, and we were off to pick up pizza.
Can you believe my flesh did not even have the courtesy to knot up and bruise? What kind of rinky-dink aspirin am I taking every day, anyway?