BONG, BONG, BONG
Oh no, the dreaded bong of doom. Chrysler must have had a bad spot in the past where people just forgot to check the gas gauges of their cars, so the efficient
Krauts Stormtroopers Ubermench ... engineers ... who created our vehicle helpfully designed in a little bell to ring when you hit a quarter tank. Scares the hell out of me every time when I'm driving, which gives Ellen a good chuckle.
When it gets especially low, it bongs an extra-helpful three times. Which it did just now, just as we exited I-66 and were pulling onto the "connector" heading toward the toll road and home. It was a beautiful day, sun shining in a clear blue sky, crayon-green trees merrily belching nose-clenching pollen, all accompanied by the meaty thunk-splat of cicadas as they caromed off our windshield at an appreciable fraction of the speed of light.
Ellen: "We need gas."(thunk-splat)
Scott: "Yeah. I meant to fill up before we left work, but I forgot. I'm not even sure where a gas station is on this end of the toll road. We'll be fine."
Of course we would, I said to myself as I drove along, if we even have one gallon of gas in the tank, that'll carry us 35 miles. It's no more than about 30 miles to home. Plenty of juice to get (thunk-splat) home, pick up the kid, and hit a gas--
"I know what you're thinking," Ellen suddenly said, in an uncanny imitation of a certain steely-eyed Clint Eastwood character, "you're wondering if you've got enough gas to make it home. Well, I tell you, I've lost track myself in all this excitement. But seeing as daycare charges $20 every 5 minutes if we're late, and a tow truck would take at least an hour to even get here, an hour you'd spend with me standing on the side of the road telling the world what a stupid f---- you are, you've gotta ask yourself one question: do I feel lucky?
Well... do ya, punk?"