On Saturday night we had our allotment of Fuller’s ESB, and were planning to cook burgers on the grill. I went out there and fired-up that bastard, and came back inside to (heh) prepare the meat. And when I returned to the deck, to begin the process, everything was shut-down. The grill was completely cold, and refused to re-light.
Grrr… It seemed like I’d only recently filled the propane tank, but Toney (who has some kind of crazy ability to remember when things actually happened) informed me it had been last summer, late in the season. If she’d put forth a little more effort, I feel confident she could have come up with the exact date…
So, we were out of gas, and I had several beers sloshing around in my great belly. No way was I driving somewhere to get the tank filled, and risking a stay at a federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison.
I asked Toney if she wanted to cook the burgers indoors, and that never really works for us. They turn out tasteless, we make an ungodly mess, and the house becomes dominated by a heavy clinging funk. There wasn’t much enthusiasm for that particular solution…
So we decided to drag the charcoal grill out of the garage, and cook them old-school. But the charcoal was apparently past its expiration date, and wouldn’t light. It was like trying to make a pile of rocks catch fire.
What the hell, man?? If it hadn’t been for the beer, I probably would’ve flown off the handle, completely. But, under the circumstances, I was only waving my hands around, and making exaggerated WTF? gestures.
We finally opted to pool our cash, and do a quick run to the Burger King drive-thru, a couple of blocks from our house. So, we had corn on the cob, deviled eggs, baked beans… and Whoppers. And, to tell you the truth, is wasn’t half-bad.
But whenever we’re forced deal with such a situation, at least once per summer, I think about a guy I knew in California. The dude did everything by the book, and had a completely ordered life. You know the type…
His garage, I shit you not, had a painted floor, and little squares of carpet upon which the tires of his two anal-retentive showroom-spotless cars rested at night. And on the walls were photographs of various hotrods and whatnot – in frames. He had framed art in his garage!
His clothes always seemed painfully pressed and neat, and his house looked like a drawing, not something from the real world. It was amazing; every blade of grass on his lawn was exactly the same length, color, and thickness. Or so I suspect.
And he had two propane tanks for his grill – just in case.
Needless to say, I mocked the man behind his back. I called him Ol’ Two Tanks, and we made fun of his carpet squares on a semi-regular basis. I mean, seriously; I’m only flesh and blood here.
But every time I run out of gas, with a plate of meat in one hand, and the other whipping through my Peter Brady hair… that guy gets the last laugh. I can feel him sneering at me, from across the continent. The smug prick.
And that leads me to the Question of the Day: Ol’ Two Tanks is actually named Ed, and I was wondering… do you know any Eds? If so, tell us about him, won’t you? We need to get the lowdown on all these Eds, dammit.
And I’ll see ya next time.