Free Beef?
I got my tires changed the other day.
I know this seems a mundane activity, but I don’t know anything about cars, so it was a tad stressful for me. It was like trying to buy shoes for someone else, I didn’t know what size, what style, or what tread would go best with my car. And the entire time I felt like a complete nim-rod because the men I was dealing with were treating me like an idiot. Hello, I have no idea what I’m doing, of course I’m an idiot!
Then, to make matters worse, the day of my appointment it’s pouring down rain, so I walk into this tire-changing-establishment looking comparable to a drowned rat, to be helped by a completely adorable guy standing behind the counter. Thanks karma! I already felt like an idiot, now I have to like one too. Just this once, couldn’t it be a balding, fat, mid-40’s married guy?
I mustered as much self confidence as I could to mumble my name, car make, and model, to the hottie I knew was thinking to himself, dose this girl own a mirror? Gave him my keys and scurried over to the sitting area to wait. I was cleaning out my purse and fighting a headache from the overwhelming stench of rubber, after straightening out my hair and checking my makeup, when they called me back to the counter a mere 20 minutes later.
I got up, almost tripped, and walked over to the counter completely stripped of any coolness that may have been lingering. Adorable guy smiled and began a flirtatious lecture on how dangerous my car was because the tires were so bald, and I should get them rotated at blah-blah-blah miles, and replace them after yadda yadda, and was taking my credit card from my hand when he looked me straight in the face and asked, “Do you want your free beef?”
Huh?!?
Did he really just ask me if I wanted beef?
“What did you say?” I asked, completely dumfounded.
“Your free beef,” he said pointing.
With all the flirting going on, I was completely confused. So I traced his muscular arm and strong, grease smeared fingers to the box on the counter that read: Free Beef Party Pack.
Huh!?!
I’m at a tire store, why is there beef here? And why is adorable guy offering me a box of beef, instead of his number? And who puts beef in a box at a tire store?
The look on my face must have betrayed the inner workings of my mind, because he looked at me and we both turned a slight shade of pink. And I quickly singed for my new tires, which had damaged my pride more than my bank account, grabbed my box of beef, and dashed out of there post-haste!
Free beef? I mean really! Where dose a tire store go to buy its beef? Or do they make it; is it the remains of irritating customers? Doesn’t it seem odd to eat perishable foods from a store filled from roof to ceiling with toxic rubber products?
And shouldn’t adorable guys refrain from asking girls they’ve been flirting with if they want free beef?
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