Is it your gas mileage or your breasts?
Blonde and Brunette went to Sicily – Land of the Moody and Lecherous – and rented a car from a skinny, hate-emitting, little bitch at a company in Catania. She blew smoke and sneers after us as we drove away, in our tinny, accessory-devoid car to our near-certain automotive deaths.
If you’re new somewhere that’s world-famous for fast reckless driving and one of you drives very rarely and the other only in a Norman Rockwell painting, it doesn’t take much sense to realize that you need to start with small excursions. However, we do not have “much” sense when we travel, we have no sense whatsoever.
We immediately set off withBlonde driving, swearing, making imaginative yet universally understood hand gestures and lurching the car each time the gears needed to be shifted. We drove at astonishing rates of speed to Taormina, Syracuse and many other places. We got lost on the way to literally everywhere we went.
Each day as we set out Brunette would ask Blonde if we needed to get more gas in the car. We hadn’t added a drop since we’d been there. Blonde would say “No, I can’t believe it but this gauge stays at full all the time. This thing gets amazing mileage”! Brunette thought that was great too and off we would go to encounter more Sicilians, the vast majority in explosively bad moods. However, the men (only) would switch instantly from a tantrum to leering at Blonde. (Ladies, if you’re having self-esteem issues dye your hair blonde and go to Sicily. Be sure not to learn the language so you can enjoy the looks but not know what they’re saying.)
After several days of speeding around Sicily we were once again lost and pulled into a gas station to get directions. The attendant at the station leaned in through Blonde’s rolled down window. Questions as to how to locate our destination were ignored while the man reached, in a highly familiar fashion, across Blonde’s breasts to point at our gas gauge – it was on empty.
We were amazed to realize that our never-changing full tank of gas had suddenly been drained.
It hadn’t. Blonde had been looking at the wrong gauge all week and it never moved. (It may have been a National Mood Gauge which accurately stayed at the high end of pissed off all the time.) And of course Brunette never challenged Blonde’s idiotic assertion that with hundreds of miles of driving we had not used any fuel at all.
Once we realized what the station attendant was saying and how stupid we’d been we thought it was hilarious and asked him to fill the tank.
For some reason though it was necessary for several other men, as well as the original fly-by fondler, to reach across Blonde’s breasts (twice in one case) to point at the gauge and laugh. We finally had a tank of gas and they’d all rubbed against some past-their-glory-days American breasts so everyone was happy. Most likely all gauges were in the upright position.