The world is changing, and I'm being forced to change with it.  I first noticed this yesterday, when I stopped at the gas station for a fill-up.*

The posted gas price was "only" $3.49 - every place else in the area was closer to $3.60 and rumors of $4-per-gallon prices by sundown were flying.

I wanted to fill up, but so did about 30 other people. These potential customers had circled the station with their SUVs and mini-vans. They'd even elected a spokesperson, a huge, muscular fellow wearing a hockey mask who - as I pulled up - was speaking into a microphone.

"Just walk away," he said to the gas station employees, all of whom huddled together behind the cash register. At least two of them appeared to be armed with homemade flame-throwers. "Just walk away. No one has to die. We just want the gas. Just walk away."

Suddenly one of the employees jumped up from behind the counter with a rusty Kalashnikov and lay down a barrage of suppressing fire while the others jumped in a tanker truck a tore off down the street. The customers started their engines and began driving in wild circles around the station, whooping and hollering.

I decided I'd try my luck at another station in a nearby town. But when I got there I discovered the town was now surrounded by armed guards and a barbed-wire barrier. Fortunately, I had two cans of lima beans in the truck with me. I removed the labels, told the guards the cans were filled with peaches, and traded them for entrance into the city.

Inside, I drove around looking for an open gas station. Unfortunately, the town's only source of fuel was an underground methane factory populated by a big, scary guy, a little guy who rode around in the big guy's backpack, and about 500 pigs (who were directly responsible for producing the - ahem - methane). The town did not smell good.

I mentioned this to one of the guards, who took it as an insult. Next thing I knew, I was tossed unceremoniously into a cage where I was forced to fight the big, scary pig farmer using nothing but my wits and a chain saw. About a hundred spectators gathered ‘round the cage to bet on the fight and eat corn dogs and elephant ears. Things were going badly for me until, for no particular reason, I started whistling the theme song to the television show "Three's Company."

The giant covered his ears and fell to the floor whimpering. I seized the opportunity to clout him behind the ear with the handle of the chain saw; this seemed to quiet him down some.
While everyone was watching the big guy to see if he'd get up and moidalize me, I snuck out the back way, hopped in my truck and beat cheeks out of there. I didn't even ask for a refund for the two cans of "peaches."

My gas gauge was slipping steadily toward "E." I was running out of time. I was running out of gas.

I decided to try to make it home on the few paltry gallons remaining to me. But hordes of motorcycle-riding, Mohawk-wearing, Australian-sounding hippies kept trying to cut me off and force my truck off the road.

I rolled down my window and shouted: "Give it a rest! I've only got a quarter tank!"

"Aww," they all moaned. Then they were off in a cloud of dust and exhaust smoke, searching for more fertile hunting grounds.

Back home, I learned that The Lovely Mrs. Taylor had experienced similar troubles on her way home from the office. "Tina Turner wanted me to fight some pig farmer to the death," she said. "Can you believe it?"

I could.
She continued: "Then, there were these guys who looked like refugees from a Men at Work video who chased me on motorcycles."

"I know, I know," I said. "They were after me, too."

Nobody can say Mrs. T and I can't tell which direction the wind's blowing. We brought the lawn mower (with its full tank of unleaded) into the living room, locked the doors, and turned out the lights.

We're hoping to make it through this gas-gouging emergency without losing our innate civility. But just in case, I've downloaded plans for building my own flame-thrower. G'day mate.

* I should point out up front that, unless you've seen the "Road Warrior/Mad Max" movies, starring Mel Gibson in the days before he was directing Aramaic snuff films, this column probably won't make much sense. The same could be said even if you HAVE seen those flicks, but that's my fault.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or observations about how much he looks like a young Mel Gibson, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.