Like most people, I enjoy a thrill. Sometimes, I like to let my gas gauge get super low just to see how far I can cruise around town on fumes. Also, it’s because I’m poor AF and would rather buy a tanning package than fill up my gas-guzzling SUV.
So, I’m living on the edge and running on empty with a gaggle of girls in my car. In the middle of a crowded city street, my car starts to sputter. Then it just stops, and a stream of obscenities that would make a pirate proud floats out of my (usually) tame mouth. After two minutes of open-mouthed confusion, I realize I had played chicken with my gas gauge one day too many. You should know this is definitely one of my top five favorite things to do.
We somehow manage to trick a group of good-looking boys to push us to the gas station. Let’s not chalk them up to heroes though: I’m in neutral, going downhill, and the gas station is about 100 feet away.
Now here’s where the story gets interesting. NONE of us have our purses. Why would we? We had just rolled off the couch to mooch off our sorority cooking for dinner. I’m also convinced two of my so-called friends purposely don’t bring their purses anywhere for the sole reason of ending up in a situation like this.
Anyway, I find myself in the gas station with not a drop of gas in my car and not a penny in my pocket–really, we looked in my car for a loose $20 or some spare change. But let’s be honest, any spare change has already been spent. We call a cab and are promptly picked up by a seedy looking man. So, thinking that I’m young and that the cabby is probably creepy, I’ll flash him. My natural, perky, white girl boobs are probably worth the $5 cab fare to him right? WRONG. SO WRONG.
I get inside, sweating like a Tijuana whore. I say, “Hey, I don’t have any money, but I really need a ride back home.” He says, “Well, I can’t help you ma’am.” He called me MA’AM. I ask him again if he was sure he couldn’t help–then I lift my pocket tee and SHOW HIM MY BOOBS. Nips and everything. He looks away. HE LOOKS AWAY.
The next thing I know, he utters the word “police” into his stupid radio and up stroll a couple of cops. I barely get my shirt down, and the look of shock and fear on my face is priceless. Well, not priceless–it cost me $250 in fines and an indecent exposure ticket. How is that even a thing? I wish I could hand out indecent exposure tickets to half the trampy girls I see walking around downtown.
The police do give me a ride home. I ask them to turn on the sirens so I can at least cause a scene on Greek Row, but they say no. I would have flashed them, too, but I know I’m all set in the ticket department for the day.
I’m not sure how this is possible, but it gets worse. I get home and reach into my pocket for my cell phone. It’s gone, and take a wild guess where it is? IN THE CAB. I have to use a laughing sister’s phone to track down the person who incriminated me.
Then, I call my mother crying. She instructs me to call AAA then sends me a picture of her drinking a margarita with my father, laughing about my endeavor.
Bottoms up, parents. Thanks for raising a daughter who literally can’t even use what her mama gave her.