I Don't Belong Here.

a humor blog from the trenches of suburbia.

I almost ran out of gas this morning taking the kids to the bus stop. When I got in the car my display said I had 20 miles left on the tank, and the drive is 12 miles. In theory, that’s enough, but halfway into the drive I got the “low fuel” indicator, where my truck replaces the “miles to empty” number with a string of asterisks. Basically, the truck throws up its hands and says “hey man, I don’t really know how much gas you have left. It’s not a lot. So maybe you should stop being an asshole and pull into an Exxon, huh?”

I white-knuckled the last five miles, trying to lay off the gas and coast whenever I could. I doubt it did much for fuel economy, but it made me feel better.

The feeling reminded me of the few times I’ve had bathroom emergencies while stuck in traffic.

Which is worse, do you think? Running out of gas on the highway or shitting your pants on the highway? Both seem equally unpleasant to me.

I made it to the station, and based on the amount of gas my truck drank, I had about a gallon left. Plenty I guess, but not enough to feel comfortable driving around the neighborhood with the needle past E.

Lesson learned, at least until next time.

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