Once upon a time, I was peacefully sleeping. It was 11:30, so the cock had not yet crowed. Suddenly, I was ripped away from my placid slumber by a harsh pounding at the door. "Dear lord!" I cried. "Have people no sense of decency? Does the man outside, beating his arm to a bloody, pulpy stump not realize that I was in a state of quiescence most serene?" At which point, I realized I was yelling those thoughts out loud, and shaking my fist at the heavens. Abashed, I decided it might be a better idea to actually put on clothing and see who was pounding on my door, as though nobody were sleeping inside. I mean, 11:30 a.m. Have a little decency.
Roommate #1 happened to beat me to the door. He isn't as blind as a beaver with mud ground into its eye, and therefore does not have to fumble about with glasses or contact lenses. My, how I envy him.
Probably my second least favorite person to see upon waking up is a police officer, my least favorite being the fat man soaked in Axe, hovering above me preparing to strangle. He asked roommate #1 if he had the keys to the car in front of the house. Room mate one replied that it was not his car, but his room mate's. I wondered if, peradventure it were my car about which they were conversing. My personal query was soon answered in the form of room mate one turning around, giving me a look of dread, and saying "it's his car."
The officer bade me come and view my newly crinkled car. Might I just precursor with the fact that two of the three times my car has been struck, it has occurred while parked, and both culprits were females. The third time, I was actually in the car, again, hit by a female. I must have been wearing Axe.
Apparently, said brilliant female decided it was wholly unnecessary to check her blind spot before pulling out into traffic on our busy road. Which she quickly realized was a dire mistake, as her car subsequently slammed into the nose of another car, thus sending said vehicle careening into mine.
Dominoes from hell.
So, there I was, ripped from my sleeping nest, groggy and pissed, staring at my crinkled bumper. In horror, I realized that I had not set aside my tithing last night upon returning home from work, and therefore had been smitten by the Lord. The good Lord giveth and the good Lord taketh away, apparently. At least my roof rack was OK.
Of course the girl was real sorry. To which I responded, "OK."
The best part about the whole event, was the citation which I was awarded for failing to be able to provide proof of insurance. Why it was necessary for me to provide insurance when my car was murdered, is beyond me. I mean, do the police slap a citation on the wife of the husband who was murdered by a car when she can't provide proof of life insurance? I was incensed. My car had been brutally torn from my bosom by the cruel hand of an incompetent female driver, and that wretched cop had the nerve to cite me. I hope he crashes his stupid Charger into another cop's stupid Charger. A-hole.
I suppose the only solace I have found in the whole event lies in Fungus, an XM radio station that I have discovered in my Hyundai Sonata rental. The Dead Kennedy's, Decendents, Rancid, Guttermouth, Flogging Molly, and Bad Religion, have all sent me reeling back to my high school years. Hearing "Bitchen Camaro" by Dead Milkmen, almost made the accident worth enduring.
Dear female drivers of the world. Next time you hit my car, please do it after noon, as I would prefer to already be awake when said misfortune occurs. Thanks.