You Just Got Fucking Schooled at the Gas Pump
A Lesson in Economics from Someone NOT Indoctrinated by the MAGA Cult
Good morning, Mouthy Militia!
I found an article today that hit so hard, I wanted to share it with you. This had no author’s name on it. It was just posted in one of our local Democrat groups. But it was solid, so I had to repost it.
I get so fucking sick of MAGA Trumpanzees regurgitating fake bullshit they hear from Faux News and within their social media circles. The woman in this fictional story has had enough. Just like you and I have.
I hope you enjoy it. We must do everything we can to stop this bullshit, unjustifiable war that the Chutney Chomo only provoked because he doesn’t want to get arrested for being a child rapist. We cannot allow anything he does to distract us from the Epstein files.
I don’t give a damn who thinks the scandal is fake news. What you think doesn’t count, MAGA. Because thinking isn’t your strong suit. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be supporting a lying, grifting, willfully ignorant orange child-rapist as president.
So please read this one, and I’d love to know your thoughts about it. Our country is being burned to the ground because The Stupids take everything their racist, bigoted, sexist, asswipe of a president says as gospel truth. We cannot allow ignorance and apathy to destroy our planet.
Innocent men, women, and children don’t deserve to die because Traitor Trump doesn’t want to go to prison for his many, many sins.
I’m standing at the pump watching the numbers spin like a slot machine nobody asked to play.
$3.41 a gallon. For the Suburban. The Suburban that gets fourteen miles to the gallon on a good day with a tailwind and the grace of God. I just did the math in my head while the kids’ soccer cleats were still warm on the back seat, and I’m pretty sure I just spent more on gas than I spent on groceries this week.
And that’s when Jennifer pulls up.
Jennifer. In the white Tahoe. With the “Trump 2024” sticker she never scraped off and the new one underneath it that says “FINISH WHAT HE STARTED.” She’s got the Lululemon, the iced coffee, the works. She’s got a Rosary hanging from her rearview mirror, even though I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her at church. She pulls up to the pump next to me, and she does the laugh. The Jennifer laugh. The one that sounds like she learned empathy from a Hallmark movie and never quite got the timing right.
“Oh my God, these prices, right? Thanks, Biden!”
And I just… I stare at her. Because this is the thing about Jennifer. She’s not evil. I need people to understand that. She’s not sitting at home rubbing her hands together. She’s just… she’s got this perfectly sealed terrarium in her head where everything bad is always someone else’s fault, and the someone else is always a Democrat, and no new information can get in because the glass is too thick and there’s a “Live, Laugh, Love” sticker over the only crack.
“Jennifer. Sweetheart. Biden’s been gone for over a year.”
“Well, it’s his policies still…”
“Jennifer. Your guy bombed Iran. A week ago. He killed their Supreme Leader. And Iran hit back. At oil refineries, military bases, shipping lanes, everything from Kuwait to Saudi Arabia to Qatar. The Strait of Hormuz, where twenty percent of the world’s oil passes through every day? Basically shut down. Kuwait just cut production. Iraq slashed output. Qatar turned off its entire natural gas export operation. Oil just had its biggest weekly price spike since 1983. Since before you and I were born. And you’re standing here blaming a man who’s been in Delaware for fourteen months.”
She blinks at me. Takes a sip of her iced coffee. And here’s what kills me about Jennifer. The blink isn’t confusion. It’s not processing. It’s a screensaver. It’s her brain going into standby mode because the incoming information doesn’t match the preset programming.
I’ve seen that blink a hundred times. At school pickup, when someone mentions climate change. At the PTA meeting, when someone brought up book bans. It’s the Jennifer Blink. Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out.
“Well, Iran had it coming.”
“Jennifer, your husband drives an F-250 for his landscaping business. Diesel is four thirty-three a gallon. A week ago, it was three seventy-one. You want to tell me how blowing up oil depots in Tehran makes diesel CHEAPER for Mike’s truck? Walk me through the economics, Jennifer. I’ll wait.”
She won’t walk me through the economics. She’s never walked through any economics. Jennifer doesn’t do cause and effect. Jennifer does bumper stickers.
“Well, Trump said prices will come right back down…”
“Trump said, and I need you to hear this, at the State of the Union, ONE WEEK before he started bombing, he stood there and bragged that gas was a dollar ninety-nine in some places. A DOLLAR NINETY-NINE, Jennifer. That was his big win. His victory lap. And then he lit the entire Middle East on fire, and gas went up forty-three cents in a single week. He literally destroyed his own talking point. He speed-ran it. He bragged on Tuesday and bombed on Friday. That’s not policy, Jennifer. That’s a man who can’t hear himself think over the sound of his own applause.”
“But we’re energy independent…”
And this is where I want to scream. Because Jennifer says “energy independent” the same way she says “do your own research.” Like it’s a magic spell that ends the conversation. She has no idea what it means. She heard it on Fox News. It sounded strong, it’s in the terrarium now, and it’s never coming out.
“Honey. I used to teach history, not economics, but even I know that oil trades on a GLOBAL market. We produce more oil than any country in the history of the planet, and it doesn’t matter because when the Strait of Hormuz shuts down, prices go up EVERYWHERE. American oil doesn’t come with a loyalty discount for American families, Jennifer. You don’t get a patriot price at the pump.”
She’s quiet for a second. I can see her loading the next one. You can always see it with Jennifer. It’s like watching someone scroll through a teleprompter behind their own eyes.
“Well, at least he’s being tough on…”
“On WHAT? On my wallet? On yours? On every farmer about to start spring planting with diesel at four-fifty? On every trucker hauling the stuff that fills the shelves at H-E-B? This isn’t tough, Jennifer. This is a man who started a war and then told Reuters, yesterday, that he has “no concern” about gas prices. No concern. He said that out loud, into a microphone, while you and I are standing here watching these numbers spin.”
I finish pumping. I hang up the nozzle. I look at the receipt. I don’t want to look at the receipt, but I look at the receipt.
“Jennifer, I need to pick up the kids. I need to figure out how to make this tank last the week. And next week it’s going to cost more. And the week after that, probably more again. And when diesel pushes up the price of everything at the grocery store, you and I are going to be standing in the same checkout line, wondering how ground beef got to nine dollars a pound. And I need you to remember. Not Biden. Not Obama. Not the libs. YOUR GUY did this. He bragged about cheap gas on Tuesday and started a war on Friday. And he told you yesterday he doesn’t even care.”
I get in the Suburban. I pull out. I look in the rearview mirror.
Jennifer’s standing at her pump. The numbers are spinning.
And I think, for the first time, the glass might have a new crack in it.
A Texas Mom
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Fuck Trump, every day in every way.
Happens when a gasbag is the leader