Well, you must be a poofter, too.
Heh. My mom and my sister both live in NJ. I've learned to
never say, "Fill it up..." because if you do that, they pop the hose into your tank and wander off to the next guy. Then, when the filler clicks off, you have to stand there waiting until he decides it's finally your turn to get waited on again.
So when I pull in, I do some quick mental arithmetic and tell 'em, "Twenty dollars of regular..." Now they know there's a limit to how much gas I want, and they keep an eye out. And if by chance it gets to twenty, I shut it off myself and noisily replace the hose to get their attention. When they complain, I can either point to my Virginia license plate and say, "Oh, so sorry, I didn't know," or, if I'm feeling combative, "I said I only wanted twenty."
Tangent (<> derail): All my credit cards say, "DEMAND PHOTO I.D." in the signature block on the back. I gassed up in NJ a while back. Slow day, just me and the teenager attendant there, so I told him to fill it up. I gave him my credit card, which he twirled around in his hand, checking out the design and the pretty colors, flipped it over, saw the back (...c'mon, you gonna ask for I.D. now...?), flipped it over again, twirled it around some more, the filler clicked off and he topped it off to the next dollar, swiped the card, gave it back to me with the receipt to sign...
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Someone explain to me why this pimply-faced, slack-jawed knuckle dragger deserves to be paid minimum wage to do something I can do just as well and twice as fast, despite my complete lack of formal training in the lucrative field of gas pumping. |