The Automatic Gas Station Car Wash

Just got a killer car wash, dudes. It’s global warm up in this mug today so I figured I’d treat the Corolla to the deluxe, throwing down six bills that I had in my velcro wallet because I’m basically rich as hell. I got the tri-color foam action, bottom blaster, straight up Rain-X®, the works. Only the best. I don’t give a fuck.

I got a little nervous when the brushes thudded against my windshield because my windshield has a huge crack in it because I like my windshields like I like my women I apologize for that let’s pretend it never happened. Anyway I was sitting there eating my gas station taco, just being me, and it occurred to me that those brushes might smash the window and then slap my face and fill the car with soapy water and I’d have to sit there in my wet, glass-covered underwear (pants off when going through a car wash, that’s a rule) and just take it and then get two more rounds of crazy spraying and then get sealant shot in my eyes and then have the big blowers blow me. Not sure why this got super gay all of a sudden.

But you’ll be relieved to hear the windshield hung in there like a champ and my Hanes Tagless Hi-Cut 100% Cotton Panties—don’t even judge, those things are like 1,200 thread count sheets for your junk—were unsullied. I tore out of there feeling like I could punch a hole in the stupid face of the world.

» Rating: EIGHT SEXY LADIES