Nice to meet you.

Went to put some fuel in the old Subi-Roo this weekend. It was a Friday around 3p.m. and the Easterners were gassin' up to go to The Shore.
These folks were lined up at the pump like the Iraq War was going out of style.
Motorhomes, motorcycles, motorcars and motorcades had all formed neat little lines according to which side their fuel-filler was on.
With the exception of one middle-to-maximum aged d-bag in a stupid yellow Mustang. You know the color, the one that should be reserved for those with eternally sunny/loony dispositions.
He had situated himself in such a way that which ever pump opened up next he would be able to dart into (I can only assume this is what he was doing in the middle of the lot.)
I unfortunately pulled in right behind him, my parents in tow by the way, (my Dad is ridding shotty and my Mom in the back.) His selfish maneuver made it so I looked like the a-hole with the big-butt of my Subaru hanging out in the middle of the entrance intersection.
I manage to squeak around Mr. Sunshine and pull into a "right-side" gas-tank line.
Evidently, this did not suit Sunny.
He zoomed up next to my window and started mouthing words.
I was so oblivious to doing anything wrong that I rolled down my window and politely said, "Excuse me?"
"I'm Chopped Liver, nice to meet you," he said, his toupee sliding slightly over his right eye.
"Uhhh...." I said, still not understanding that I had foiled his fuel plan.
He continued to rant as I rolled up my window, his insults muffled by the pane and giggles from my mom and I.
"Nice to meet you Chop," my mom sweetly delivered in that Midwest way of hers.

We. lost. it.
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In other Midwest Mom news:

"I'm in a perpetual state of hotness," claimed my mother (in response to the humidity of course.)