Cellulite

Yesterday morning (Sunday, May 6, 2007), after walking our dog at the so-called elitist country-club, we had to gas up the Bucktooth Bathtub, and also buy gas for our lawnmowers.
The gas-station is slightly out-of-the-way from a straight shot home — a trip over lonely country roads and then 5&20.
It’s the same gas-station which occasionally can’t read my credit-card — which no matter what the almighty Bluster-King says is not an indication of my being “technically-challenged.”
What it is is their equipment being unable to read a well-used credit-card.
Many people still use cash to buy groceries and gas; but we don’t.
We hardly use cash at all any more. I pay with our credit-card, which is putting off payment until the credit-card bill arrives.
And as long as I pay-in-full, there’s no interest. Start charging interest and we’re gone.
A reissued card lasts about six months, so for the next 18 months there’s a fair likelihood the machines can’t read the card.
In which case I have to let a clerk key in the card-number; e.g. go inside the gas-station — which is also a mega-priced convenience-store.
So here we are using the lonely rural road to Ionia to access 5&20; and at 5&20 there is a ranch-house across the street.
A white Neon two-door was in the driveway, decorated with garish fluttering red-and-blue stripes on the sides. It had one of those big five-inch chromed tailpipes attached to a noisy muffler.
It also had gigantical JC Whitney chromed alloy-wheels that were spoked, so that the massive disc-brake elements showed through.
Actually they didn’t look too bad; not as bad as the massive chromed alloys I saw on a huge black Exhibition bouncing down I-10 in Los Angeles.
They looked like flower-petals; albeit chromed.
The reason the Exhibition was bouncing was giant sub-woofers in the back — ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom — shaking the pavement in the setting sun.
The garish Neon pulled up, also to buy gas. A thick-legged butterball bounced out with elegantly coiffed and dyed hair (almost a beehive), and began gassing the Neon.
Finished, butterball zoomed across the station lot, toward the store; probably to pay cash.
“KEE-YUCK!” I said. The girl, probably in her 40s, was wearing short-shorts.
“Ya shouldn’t be wearing short-shorts, honey” I said outside hearing-range.
Thunder-thighs were awash in gelatinous cellulite, jiggling like Jello.
She also was walking at a speed where ya dared not get in her way.
Why are people always walking at the speed-of-light? I get blown by in the Weggers parking-lot, and I ain’t walkin’ that slow. (I pass a lotta people.)
Then there was a loud door-slam, and the Neon roared off. She laid rubber leaving the gas-station.
WHAT A TURN-ON!

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton Park; called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because the three towns that own the park would not allow anyone but town-residents to use it.

“The Bucktooth Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white, and like sitting in a bathtub, and has what looks like a bucktooth on the grill.

“The almighty Bluster-King” is my macho brother-in-Boston Jack that bad-mouths everything I do or say.

State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20 are the main east-west highway through our area. Both routes are combined on a single highway.

“Ionia” is a small nearby rural village — essentially a crossroad with some houses.

“JC Whitney” is a mail-order catalog outfit in Chicago that sells independently-made accessories for cars and trucks. They have a reputation for selling junky baubles — e.g. fuzzy-dice.

Ford “Exhibition.”

“Weggers” is the Wegmans supermarket we buy groceries at.