Glenn had to drive Ben to work and me to practice last night. Both of us reminded him he needed to get gas. He didn’t get it while taking Ben to work; he didn’t get it on our way down to practice, either, insisting that we had enough to get to the Sunoco along the way home.

3-1/2 blocks away from said Sunoco, Glenn is complaining that the car feels like it is dragging. I point out that I hear no noise from the brakes, or any other noise for that matter, and verbally ponder whether our gass situation could be the cause. No sooner did the words leave my lips when the car stalls.

We walk 3 blocks to the gas station to discover they only carry 1 gallon gas cans. And you must purchase them. WTF? It didn’t help that the attendant was an idiot. The gas can only holds a gallon. Why are you trying to sell me two gallons?

3 blocks back with the gas, which turns out not to be enough to get the car started. So back to the Sunoco for another gallon. Also not enough. So we proceed to do what we should’ve done in the beginning: push the car to the gas station.

The entire way, Glenn is yelling at me to keep my foot off the brake. Um, yeah. I’m helping you push the car, so how can my foot be on the brake? Neverless, Glenn continues to insist that I’m doing this and makes sure that those who help us know this ficticious fact.

By the time we reach the gas station Mr. I’m not out of shape is covered in sweat and ready to cough up a lung. Meanwhile I’m barely breaking a sweat despite putting just as much effort in while wearing a jacket, since I was on the traffic side and the jacket was more visible than the black T I had on. We fill up and head out to get Ben. We were originally 45 minutes ahead of schedule. We ended up being 45 minutes late. Of course Dumbass number 2 didn’t know why we were late because (after his “lecture” on the importance of having minutes on his phone) he left his cell home.

I need ice cream.