Saturday, September 15, 2018

Rave at Pump #12!

I suppose this happens to everyone from time to time, but living in Hollywood, it seems to happen to me all the time. You know the feeling: you just need ten gallons of Regular, a caffeine-free Diet Dr Pepper, and a box of Twizzlers, but while you're fumbling for your debit card a rave breaks out in front of the mini-mart, and the next thing you know, you're waking up disoriented in the Cool Tent.

6 comments:

Mary Clevenger said...

Mom! I'm tripping!

Carl said...

...andbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpantsandbootsandpants

Fearguth said...

It's never too often to drum up a little business.

Li'l Innocent said...

Well, I can tell you nothing like that ever happens around where I live.
Old mafiosi lounging outside the Dunkin Donuts, yes. Chris Christie dwelling a few miles up the road, okay. Donald Trump golfing not far over the next hill westward, I admit it.
But nothing like this.

PS: Hiya, Scott and Mary!

Scott said...

Hi Li'l!

Sorry about all gangster types in your neighborhood.

Also the mafiosi.

Li'l Innocent said...

All the gangster types...
Yeah, you'd never guess it if you saw our pleasant tree-lined streets, respectable looking houses, the statues of Geo. Washington and Tom Paine.
I guess thugs like the country-getaway aspect. The people of Bedminster, just over the next rise as I said, do NOT consider Trumpo's golf club a good neighbor.

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