a) Driving - we are not into horns, or anger on the road, this may be going back to our times on the homestead in a covered wagon. You can't be passing people and speeding along with your 15 children and a bison. Bull? Boat? That's going to bother me, anyway, slow goin'.
b) Sales Tax - what's up? Its like being lied to repeatedly, and without any rhyme or reason. This twinkie is $1.20 but wait at the register its $3.48, or sometimes they just seem to tack on 28 dollars to my Cheez-Its, playing with fire. AND did you notice that after you come back from one of these shopping ripoffs you have 14 pounds of change? This is not the America I know. Stay strong Alaska, Delaware, Montana, and New Hampshire - I believe in you.
c) Gas - self-serve gas is a mystery, and for women usually there are a few coy giggles and you have yourself a gas attendant also known as a creepy old man in a late model sports car, but for boys there is a whole other issue and this is how is goes every time, don't doubt me.
Traditionally pale male Oregonian walks up to this odd contraption that pumps gas, FOR SOME REASON, this gas pump becomes a extension of his manhood, the pump his man stick, the gas his underpants navy, and the car, well his lady love, which is ironic because most of the time they like the car better than the actual female that is sitting in said car wondering why this man is no longer appealing outside of his native state. This creates a battle that can go one of 2 ways; 1) he forces that gas pump into the gas tank too quickly and for some reason it seems to take way to many uncomfortable minutes for the tank to fill, he's loving it, the car is mildly satisfied but knows that there have been better gas attendants or 2) in a frenzy he puts it in and its over really quickly, leaving the car less than full. And that is how you go way too far with a metaphor.
d) Not playing Oregon Trail - only the best way to pass your elementary years, let me explain for those of you who DIDN'T HAVE A CHILDHOOD. This is a computer game in which you and your family of too many children with biblical names travel along the Oregon trail. The kicker is that mostly you die and never make it and it has nothing to do with you or how you play. This is the only game in which your small children can get taken away by hawks and never be seen or heard from again (sorry Abraham), and your wagon is ravaged by cholera, never have I been so wrapped up in the health of a quadruped either, you gotta make sure that your oxen? or water buffalo?, cow?, are ready to go. Stressful for an 8 year old, but life lessons learned.
So if you are not from the wild west, rejoice! And if you are from this soggy state, just be thankful that you have been strong enough to mourn the loss of infants being lost to large birds of pray, it's made you stronger, and we don't have to pump our own gas, silver lining.
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