Many of you are reading this Thought with the expectation that I will be talking about barbeque’s ability to induce flatulence. You will be sorely disappointed. We here at T.J. Monkey’s would never resort to such lows to get a laugh. Unless we’re writing about poop. Hee hee. Poop is funny. Seriously.
Anyways, this Thought is actually about Southern fuel…petrol…make-my-car-go juice.
I recently drove through the South, and was struck by the inordinate variety of gas stations. Not only do you have the Mobiles and the Sunocos and the Exxons, but they’ve got Ma & Pa BBQ…and Gas, Jimmy’s Bait Shop…and Gas, Fine French Cuisine…and, yes that’s right, Gas.
“Why is that?” I wondered.
Then, the answer hit me. We scuffled for a bit, me finally pinning the answer and making it say “Uncle.”
I realized that Southerners have solved our fuel shortages, our concerns about depleting our natural resources. They’ve determined a way to create some sort of synthetic gas, and it seems anyone who wants to purvey this pseudo-gas is allowed. There’s so much of it, no one cares about running out. You know, like trees or something.
“But how have they done this?” I wondered anew.
Then, like a beacon of knowledge rising out of a pool of ignorance, I saw a sign that answered my questions. I pulled into this station of illumination, filled my tank, and smiled with the satisfaction that now I too shared in the Southern secret.
“What is it?” you, TJM readers, wonder collectively.
It’s simple, my friends. A brilliant twist on an old idea:
“I can’t believe it’s not gas!”
I’m pretty sure the margerine people are behind the whole thing…