As I filled my car with gas at the San Clemente Mobil Station, I looked over at the car wash and saw that there was just one car waiting, a white Mercedes. Seven minutes later, as I drove toward the car wash, I noticed that the same car was still there, the carwash bay was empty, and the car was unoccupied. After I waited a few moments, you returned to your car. Apparently, you initially had neither the cash nor the code to operate the wash, so you had parked right in front of it, while you sashayed to the cashier. Most people would have parked somewhere other than the car wash entrance while they obtained the necessary means to operate it, because they realize that while they're at the register, someone else may want to use the car wash. But then, I took a closer look at you in your generously proportioned shirt and your figure-enhancing spandex clam-diggers, which I could see you were wearing backward, because they're supposed to flatten your tummy and enhance your butt, not the other way around. And I realized why you'd expected other car wash patrons to be delighted to wait for you: your life is much more important than ours. Why you graced this humble gas station with your majestic presence is a mystery. We truly did not deserve it.
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