“A Quart Low on Route 66: The Blonde, the Dipstick, and the Very Patient Attendant”

A blonde stopped at a gas station, got out of the car, opened the hood, and checked the engine oil.

After a few seconds of what appeared to be intelligent thinking she took the dipstick in her hand and walked over to the attendant.

…She handed him the dipstick like it was a microphone and said with total confidence:

“Excuse me, sir, how many miles am I supposed to get on this thing?”

The attendant, a lanky guy with a pompadour that could slice bread, stared at the oil-covered stick, then at her, then back at the stick. He wiped it on a rag, slid it back into the engine, pulled it out again, checked the level, and said, “Ma’am, you’re about a quart low.”

She blinked twice, tilted her head, and smiled sweetly. “A quart? Oh, honey, I don’t drink. I’m driving!”

The attendant opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “No, ma’am, your car needs a quart of oil.”

She gasped dramatically and slapped a hand to her chest. “My car drinks? Well, no wonder it’s been hiccuping on the highway! What brand does it prefer? I only buy premium for my gentlemen friends.”

At this point the attendant realized he was in a 1950s rom-com written by someone who’d never met an actual woman. He sighed, walked to the shelf, grabbed a quart of 10W-30, and started pouring it in himself.

She watched, fascinated. “So that’s where the oil goes! I always thought the little genie under the hood just refilled it when I played the radio loud enough.”

He capped it, wiped his hands, and handed her the empty can as a souvenir. “That’ll be two dollars even.”

She fished a crisp five from her purse, told him to keep the change “for your college fund,” winked, hopped back into her mint-green Bel Air, revved the engine exactly once (purely for dramatic effect), and peeled out of Fuel-Rama leaving a perfect little cloud of dust and the faint scent of Chanel No. 5.

The attendant stood there holding the empty oil can, watching her tail lights disappear down Route 66. Then he looked up at the rocket sign, shook his head, and muttered to no one in particular:

“I’m gonna need a stronger cup of coffee.”