Illustration by Kalah Allen

Okay, so I was stupid enough the first time that I thought the mileage gauge on my old 1975 Chevy had ceased to accurately display my gas consumption, and subsequently thought it was my fucking fault for running out of gas on 15th and Fremont. My insight into the dilemma took another turn with my second empty gas stall, this time on 15th and Prescott. It occurred to me that I had just put into my tank a hard-earned $20 the day before, and that nowhere in the last 24 hours had I driven 200-plus miles. You cock-sucking, lip-smacking, gas-siphoning, guzzling pig! Next time you come to my truck the new gas locks will have been installed. I hope that when you guzzle your next victim's gas you swallow a large gulp, causing you to vomit, then belch, and then, you incompetent bum, I want you to light a smoke to smother the putrid odor, causing your lips to ignite on fire! YOU SCUM-SUCKING FUCK-WHORE!—Anonymous