Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

My Trip to BP

So, I stopped in to see my old friends at the BP gas station late yesterday afternoon, my old friends who yelled and screamed at me over the loud speaker to stop talking on my cellphone while I was pumping gas because I could cause an explosion.

I have learned my lesson. I recognize the fact that the employees working at the BP gas station have a vast amount of experience in the petroleum supply industry and are trained at regular intervals concerning the operation of electronic, computer-actuated-and-controlled fuel pumps, automatic scientifically-hermetically-sealed vapor recovery systems, and garbage cans.

There can be no doubt that these select employees, having survived the grueling BP application, interview, and hiring process, have passed rigorous, extensive examinations administered by a major international independent petroleum retailing testing service and received certifications in many areas, gas station fire safety and gas station customer service among them, by the National Petroleum Retailers Association, in addition to being licensed by several federal, and many state and local regulatory agencies, to earn their stress-filled positions behind the desk in front of the massive high-tech array of electronic panels and LCD screens and a unidirectional dynamic microphone (unfortunately, it is not equipped with an integrated shockmount system to reduce handling noise).

I had my doubts about my cell phone causing a conflagration, gasoline vapors ignited by the tiny electrical sparks that whiz around the chips in my iPhone, a miniaturized version of Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory, flames shooting up the gas hose through the gas pump and into the underground storage tank, exploding with volcano force from under the upheaving concrete and asphalt.

Of course, I guess if I was talking on my cell phone and lit up a match to check the fuel level in the tank, I might blow up the gas station.

And I guess that if I was talking on a cell phone and discharged some static electricity near the filler tube, I might blow up the gas station.

But don't tell me I'll blow up the gas station if I'm telling Jackal we're going to see Clapton in Columbus. And don't you know, I have some proof that will not happen, proof beyond a reasonable doubt. And it comes right from the experts.

Yes, that's what I said -- the experts.

She wore the green and yellow shirt, the BP shirt, and gray slacks, but not the green hat because it would have covered her not-found-in-nature black hair with bluish-purple stripe; and that would have been very bad. She thought she was original, but I saw similar make-up in A Clockwork Orange, originally rated "X" by the MPAA or its forerunner, some 35 years ago, as she went about her business checking in the several waste containers at each gas pump island, fur in all with three dual pumps each, to see if any required one of her many expert services.

And she walked right by me, saying, "They're gonna be at Peabody's tonight," not to me, but into her cell phone.

I am vindicated.

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Remember, World Squash Day is March 14.

Posted by Bill at March 8, 2009 06:38 PM