Classic.

On our way back from the grocery store this afternoon, Paul stopped to get gas. I hopped out to clean the windshild, then went over to where he was standing by the pump, staring at the display.
“Can you believe this?” he asked. “It’s so slow.”
Sure enough, the pump was dispensing gas at the rate of about a gallon every sixty or so seconds, the numbers on the digital display counting ever so slowly upward. The tank was almost empty, so we were looking for something like eight or nine gallons, and, of course, out in big box land the wind was whipping furiously across the parking lots, making the 20 degrees and sunny feel like a positively antarctic 20 below. After trying to shield ourselves from the wind by standing on the other side of the pump, we gave up and just sat in the car waiting for the next five minutes or so, while the pump wheezed out gasoline at something like an eighth the normal speed.
But the windshield, I’m tellin’ ya, it looked great.

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