Guns and Slurpees

On a long drive recently we had cause to stop at a roadside petrol establishment to ensure that the car had enough fuel to get us out of no-man’s land without needing to fend off a flock of buzzards or the cast of “Mad Maxx.” Once we filled up and made our way into the market to buy drinks, it was clear that we weren’t in Kansas anymore. Or maybe we were, and that was the problem.

In addition to the typical selection of foodstuffs that bear as much resemblance to food as your typical steel-belted radial tire, there was an array of liquor that rivaled the biggest Bottle Barn I’ve ever been in. And guns.

Yes, this one-stop convenience mecca was stocked with everything you needed to go on a violent, drunken, mobile rampage. Additionally, we were on a major highway, so the option of interstate carnage and FBI involvement was only an interchange away.

The thoughtfulness of the mini-mart industry. Seriously.

Imagine that you’re on a road trip with your boyfriend and your best girlfriend. Somewhere around Needles, Nevada you realize that there’s been a little too much silence coming from the back seat. Angling the rear-view mirror a bit you see that there’s some serious undercover exploration going on beneath the Snoopy comforter you still have from college that they pulled over themselves under the pretext of “napping.”

So what to you do? Pull over? Tell them that you feel hurt and betrayed, that you think you’re owed an explanation and that your relationship with both of them is on thin ice?

Fuck, no.

You start scanning the highway for the nearest gas/guns & ammo outlet. You say, casually of course, that the tank’s getting a little low and that you’ve got a sudden craving for a tall, cherry Icee (which everyone except your asshole boyfriend and slut-fest girlfriend really knows is code for “raining a world of pain on the asshole boyfriend and slut-fest girlfriend”). You stroll into the market, grab a Slim Jim, a fifth of Johnny Walker Red, a .22 caliber shotgun and a box of ammo that would let you to down a national park’s worth of red-tailed deer.

You slam back a few mouthfuls of whiskey, rip a chunk off the Slim Jim, load your shotgun, and saunter back to the car to unleash a scene of violence and brutality on the cheaters in the back seat so glorious that it makes Quentin Tarentino want to cast Megan Fox as you in the movie.

Then you can stroll back into the store for a package of scented Hand-Wipes and the newest issue of Cosmo before hitting the open road.

Who needs a goddamned Wal-Mart?

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