Last night I went to the gas station before my Junior Chamber mixer. I was pumping gas and keeping one eye on all the sketchy characters milling about. I am a woman after all — and every man is out to rape or kill us, right? Thanks Dateline.
Then, this guy in a smallish pickup truck pulled up to the pump across from me. The truck was painted a lovely black and white camoflauge paint job. It was accessorized with skeletons painted on the back windows. Again, lovely.
He stepped out and I immediately thought he missed a good chance to be on Hillbilly Handfishin’ or something of the like.
I kept pumping gas, but noticed he had locked eyes on me and stopped dead in his tracks. Oh gawd.
So I turn my head towards him and make eye contact — and I kid you not, you can’t make this stuff up — he starts whistling Tate’s whistling song from the show “American Horror Story.” And never broke my stare and never smiled. And he whistled the WHOLE damn thing.
I know I just probably stood there with my mouth open, but in my head I thought, “I’m ’bout to taze you, bro.”
I just calmly quit filling my tank and walked to my driver’s side and got in the car as he wrapped up that cheerful diddy. And then I locked the door and shuddered so violently that I almost smacked my face on the steering wheel.
10 creepy points to you, good sir. That was creepy.