A Whole Ute-Load Of Entitlement

I am filling my ute (pickup truck) at the service station. I have been out working my bees, so I am dirty, sweaty, and tired. I’m wearing an old, stained T-shirt, shorts, and thongs (flip flops). I in no way look like I worked here.

A young woman in her twenties pulls up to the other side of my fuel pump. She is dressed in sharp business style, complete with high heels and false nails. As she starts to walk inside the store, she says to me:

Woman: “Fill my tank when you are done there.”

Me: “Uh… I don’t work here, lady.”

Woman: “Ugh! I don’t care! Just fill the d*** car!”

And then she storms off inside with a clatter of high heels.

I just shrug, finish filling my tank, and head inside to pay. I have no f***s left to give these days. It might have been different if there had been some common courtesy used, a “please” or “thank you” or “a could you possibly help me,” but brusque orders are the absolute best way to piss this old guy off.

I head to the counter and see that the woman is already waiting there to one side.

Me: “Number four pump.”

Woman: “And I am on number five.”

The guy behind the register looks surprised.

Cashier: “There is only one sale, for the number four pump.”

Me: “Yep.”

I hand him my card.

Woman: “He filled my car, too.”

Me: “Nope.”

The woman instantly goes from zero to Uzi, red-faced and shouting, because apparently, I have defied her command.

Woman: “I told you to fill the f****** tank! Jesus Christ, are you f****** stupid.”

And so on.

Me: “Look, b****, I don’t work here, I don’t work for you, and I most certainly don’t take orders from arrogant c***s, so get out there and pump your own f****** fuel.”

She ranted some more. I left, too tired, don’t care.