I was stopping at Goodyear. I normally don’t, but I’d drank a sixty-four ouncer of kombucha, and well, nature was calling.
One of the tire technicians looked over at me and smiled. He pointed at the wheels of my car. “Add some air?”
“Excuse me?” I asked. “I know the science. I’ve educated myself. And there won’t be any air for me, nor for my kids.”
“But you have a tattoo and you listen to rock-and-roll,” the technician said, in disbelief. “How can you possibly know the science about air?”
“I’ll have you know that I have a college degree!” I said, my finger pointed into his face.
“I never imagined that a hip, good-looking woman like you would have a college degree.” He shrugged. “So you want some air?”
“Do you know what’s in air?” I asked him.
“Um... air?” He laughed and shrugged. Yes, that’s what we’re teaching our kids these days.
I told him the facts. I told him to read the safety inserts.
“Do you know what was found at the site of Vince Foster’s death?” I asked him.
“Who?” He shrugged. Sheeple!
“Air! Lots of it! Even in his lungs! Do you see now?” I turned around. All the other customers of the Goodyear were standing up and slowly clapping.
“Jeffrey Epstein!” I called out. I wasn’t afraid of anybody. “They don’t want you to know what was in Jeffrey’s Epstein’s cell.”
“Air?” The technician asked. Terror filled his eyes. His mouth trembled.
“Air! AIR!” I shouted it so hard that my nose emitted chemtrails. “You think it’s coincidence that Bill Gates pumps his tires full of it? And Jeff Bezos talks about drones that travel in the air?”
“Have you seen what’s in air?”
I didn’t wait for these sheeple to answer. I had the facts.
“Nitrogen!” I told them. “They don’t want you to know. Nitrogen. The same stuff that’s in dynamite. And fertilizer. Do you want to drive your precious children around on tires full of dynamite and fertilizer?”
A young mother stared at me in shock and slowly nodded. She quickly put a plastic bag over her baby’s head and tied it at the neck.
The technician raised his hand, just a little. “But our boss, Mister Goldfeinsteinberg, told us that car tires need air—”
“And you believe THEM? You know, THEM?” I shook my head. “We didn’t have air inflation stations in this country until the twentieth century and Big Air, the industrial conglomorates, the Rothschilds, George Soros, Sandy Koufax, Paula Abdul, Lou Reed, Ben Stiller, and Steve Mnuchin.”
“Ben Stiller too?” The technician shook his head in disbelief.
“Come on.” I held my hands up to attract more attention and scratched my chin suggestively. “And Albert Einstein? Come on, Ein-stein? Isn’t it obvious?”
“I never thought of it that way.” He exhaled and shook his head.
“And the Hindenburg? Hinden-burg?” I asked the crowd. “And what was it full of?”
“Air!” A little boy shouted out, then started crying.
“We didn’t have inflation stations anywhere. And when’s the last time you heard of an 18th century driver getting a flat tire?” I nodded at the audience. They were applauding more enthusiastically now. “I have the facts. In 1857, there were zero calls to AAA for flat tires! Zero!”
The crowd gasped. The suffocated baby dropped from his mother’s arms. I peed kombucha.
The owner of Goodyear came out from the back room, wearing a perfectly tailored Louis Vuitton suit. “Hello. I’m Mister Goodyear.” He looked me right in the eye. “I’ve been watching what you’re saying here, and you’re absolutely right. We’ve been lying to the people about Big Air for too long now. Thank you. Thank you so much for educating us.”
“I couldn’t have done it without my Facebook group and YouTube,” I said. Everyone took out their notepads and wrote down the URLs I gave them.
As I was leaving, a rotund Frenchman smiled and gave me a $100 bill.
That man’s name? The Michelin Man.