All I need to do is pump up one of my bike tires and I'm dandy.
So I go to the gas station on the corner of my street and start putting air into the back tire of my bike. Every thing's going nicely until one section of the tire starts filling more rapidly than the rest until it looks like a grotesque tumour jutting out the side of the rim. There's a kink in the tube, so I quickly let the air out, and - being the bright person that I am - realise I have to carry the bike back to the apartment to fix it because I don't have the necesarry lever to remove the tire. Bear in mind it's about 35 degrees, humid and I have to carry the bike. I fix the tube, go back to the gas station and begin to fill it with air again. It's started to get late, but I should be fine if I can fill the tire and ride fast.
Now, I should tell you, I like to ride on hard tires, with plenty of pounds of air jammed in. My front tire is as tight as a snare drum, if you flick it, it wobbles slightly and makes 'ping' noise. So I'm trying to match the amount of air to the front in the back and........
BOOM!
The fucker blows right in my face, sending shards of tire straight up into the air.
An old man filling his Morris Minor directly behind me nearly falls over.
"Holy Hell!" he says clutching the gas pump, "I thought it was a bomb!"
And then some asshole in a business suit pipes in,
"Looks like you'll be walking it home! HA HA!"
So I wheel the bike home. I'm already late.
I call a cab and wait outside. I'm dripping sweat and irrate at this point.
While I'm waiting I notice a couple, also waiting across the street and two doors down, their eyes scanning for a cab. I know what's going to happen before it happens. The cab stops at them and the bastards steal my ride. I run alongside the cab hurling profanities for a while before collapsing on the road.
I don't have time to call another cab so I decide to catch a tram. I arrive at the stop and there's an old woman slumped across the bench with two men applying cold water and a cloth to her forehead.
"Is she alright?" I ask.
"Not sure," says a man with a mustache.
"Maybe she's just sleeping?" I offer.
They both glare at me.
"Could you call an ambulance?"
Ok fine, I say and by the time the ambulance arrives and they cart her off (she was concious but confused looking. Though all old people look like that so it's hard to tell)
I am an hour late.
Finally I arrive at work, hands filthy with grease and clothes soaked with sweat.
"What are you doing here?" My boss says, wearing one of those lurid beach shirts and drinking from a long chilled glass.
"You're not supposed to be working. There's nothing for you to do, go home."
"It's Tuesday, right.?"
"More like Monday."
"Son of a bitch."
"Watch your language."
.gif "::harhar::")
