I was just the happy recipient of free gas. In war-torn Los Angeles, this is the vehicular equivalent of a Virgin Mary sighting: you feel all special, but no one ever believes you.

I must have imagined that the pump refused to read my card, then told me to “remove the handle and select a grade” anyway. And clearly I was hallucinating when it allowed me to pump a full $10 of gas into my almost-a-decade-old, gas-addicted Taurus. Clearly the remaining $27 on my card receipt is smudged, and should read $37.

Do what you will, unbelievers. Next week you’ll find me worshiping at the temple of 76 on the corner of Melrose and Normandie. When the rapture comes, who’s going to have the gas to outrun the flames of hell?