A little while back, I wrote a post about a gas station attendant who was too busy playing on his phone to do his job and fill my tank.
I imagined that his name was Shane Lazypunk.
The kid continued texting or tweeting or words-with-friends-ing or whatever the hell he was doing while another attendant from the other side of the gas station (who I called Kevin Doeshisjob) came over to do Shane’s job for him.
In my blogging rage, I made a fake Twitter account for him so that I could properly document what I thought he might be tweeting at the time.
The other night, I pulled up to a gas station, rolled down my window, turned off my car, and popped open my gas tank.
Nobody came to help me.
I leaned out the window and looked behind me to see a kid doing something on his cell phone with his back to me. He was within the warm confines of that little booth where the gas-pumpers sit when there are no cars to be fueled.
Notice that I said, when there are NO cars.
I had driven directly by him, so he undoubtedly knew that I was there.
I scowled at him through my side mirror. What the hell, kid? Do your fucking job!