If you have not noticed, gas prices keep going up; the price now ranges between $3.12 and 3.29 for regular unleaded. I think the prices will level off at around $7.49 right around Elvis’ birthday, also known as the Feast of the King. Mammy Trout was so concerned that she called one of our dysfunctional family conferences to discuss the situation. Mammy had always preached to us that it was “Manifest Destiny” for the Trouts to drive anywhere at anytime without concern of fuel prices. It appears that she is now reconsidering that position.
What do we drive? Well, Mammy drives her sexy ’03 Cadillac Escalade. I believe she drives it because she thinks that a large car makes a woman’s backside appear smaller, sort of like smoke and mirrors. Yes, artful deceitfulness. But when asked why she drives the Escalade, she politely answers, “there are only two options open to all drivers – it’s either kill or be killed when you are on the road.” Yes, she is a safety nut that puts a lot of miles on going back and forth to her Senior Olympics’ try-outs and boom-bas practices, and she takes pride in the fact that she has never been injured, either on the road, field or stage. Yes, she remains fairly active despite being on disability for her acute heliophobia, which is medical terminology for a fear of Pottsville’s helicopters. Incidentally, Mammy is a prime example of the old maxim "the older the driver, the larger the vehicle.” That maxim is one of life’s mysteries.
I drive a 1991 F-350 Supercab. Mammy told me that no man is a real man unless he drives an F-150 or higher. Like most men around here I basically use it to pick-up and return my DVDs from West Coast or Hollywood Video. My daughter Santana drives the smaller ‘99 Chevy Tahoe. Mammy is worried about the youngster driving around in such a small vehicle, but I told her she will be OK as she always drives with her helmet on.
Like most Schuylkill Countians we are now confronted with having to consider “cutting back” or “conserving energy.” Those words made Mammy’s chapped lips tremble with rage. She thought we were already doing enough by turning off our bug zapper promptly at 11 PM in the summer and 9 PM in the winter. Like Job from the land of Uz in the Old Testament she lamented to the heavens “What more is expected from me?”
At our dysfunctional family conference we came up with the following suggestions:
Instead of lubricating our engines with expensive Quaker state motor oil, we will use our left over Coney Island grease;
We will speed up and then coast down Market Street in the 2008 Cruise Night.
To lighten her Escalade Mammy will remove the hanging dice, the Maroon bobblehead, and the mud flaps;
We will all drive faster on Route 61, thereby cutting down our time spent on that highway.
We will use Mapquest to lay out routes that only take us downhill;
We will cut out one unessential trip per week by sleeping in every Sunday morning;
We will put a brick in our gas tanks which will make the tanks fill up faster on less gasoline;
At night we will sneak out and change the price signs at Sheetz to read .39 per gallon;
When her disability check is delivered, Mammy will walk to the mail box rather than drive;
We will demand that our gas purchases be by the liter as gas by the liter is cheaper.
What do we drive? Well, Mammy drives her sexy ’03 Cadillac Escalade. I believe she drives it because she thinks that a large car makes a woman’s backside appear smaller, sort of like smoke and mirrors. Yes, artful deceitfulness. But when asked why she drives the Escalade, she politely answers, “there are only two options open to all drivers – it’s either kill or be killed when you are on the road.” Yes, she is a safety nut that puts a lot of miles on going back and forth to her Senior Olympics’ try-outs and boom-bas practices, and she takes pride in the fact that she has never been injured, either on the road, field or stage. Yes, she remains fairly active despite being on disability for her acute heliophobia, which is medical terminology for a fear of Pottsville’s helicopters. Incidentally, Mammy is a prime example of the old maxim "the older the driver, the larger the vehicle.” That maxim is one of life’s mysteries.
I drive a 1991 F-350 Supercab. Mammy told me that no man is a real man unless he drives an F-150 or higher. Like most men around here I basically use it to pick-up and return my DVDs from West Coast or Hollywood Video. My daughter Santana drives the smaller ‘99 Chevy Tahoe. Mammy is worried about the youngster driving around in such a small vehicle, but I told her she will be OK as she always drives with her helmet on.
Like most Schuylkill Countians we are now confronted with having to consider “cutting back” or “conserving energy.” Those words made Mammy’s chapped lips tremble with rage. She thought we were already doing enough by turning off our bug zapper promptly at 11 PM in the summer and 9 PM in the winter. Like Job from the land of Uz in the Old Testament she lamented to the heavens “What more is expected from me?”
At our dysfunctional family conference we came up with the following suggestions:
Instead of lubricating our engines with expensive Quaker state motor oil, we will use our left over Coney Island grease;
We will speed up and then coast down Market Street in the 2008 Cruise Night.
To lighten her Escalade Mammy will remove the hanging dice, the Maroon bobblehead, and the mud flaps;
We will all drive faster on Route 61, thereby cutting down our time spent on that highway.
We will use Mapquest to lay out routes that only take us downhill;
We will cut out one unessential trip per week by sleeping in every Sunday morning;
We will put a brick in our gas tanks which will make the tanks fill up faster on less gasoline;
At night we will sneak out and change the price signs at Sheetz to read .39 per gallon;
When her disability check is delivered, Mammy will walk to the mail box rather than drive;
We will demand that our gas purchases be by the liter as gas by the liter is cheaper.
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