Today I was at the petrol station (US translation: gas station) keeping my self-promise not to let the tank go below quarter full. While I was experiencing a moment of stunned silence at the recent price hike, a chappie pulled up in a largish vehicle (read: something that should, in all honesty, require a special license to drive and a reversing beep).
Mr. Chappie hauled himself out of the beastie-sized ute (US: pickup truck), took a last couple of puffs on his cigarette then flicked it to the ground near the pump. Did he extinguish it first? Noooo that death stick had a nice little glow. For good measure he left the car (and I use that term loo-oo-oosely) running and proceeded to call his mate/buddy/bubba on the cellphone.
Partly because I felt it my civic duty, but mostly that I was starting to add an unattractive cold sweat to the Hotlanta humidity 'glow', I walked over and squished it out with my foot.
"Excuse me but I'm just going to uhhhh put that out."
If looks could kill I'd be a pile of ashes right next to the remnants of the cancer stick. Maybe he'd planned to pick it up again after he'd finished draining the station tanks into his storage unit on wheels.
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