I had about 10 things that I wanted to write about today, but it was all trumped in fifteen seconds by a Q-Tip in a Buick. Being the wonderful employee that I am, I stayed a little late to fight a new virus that had come out. This put me in my car later than usual. You know my car? That black thing with the huge wing that I bought last November and I’ve parked insane distances away from anyone to prevent even the slightest ding or scratch? You know, the car that I really love driving with the tinted windows that didn’t have a fucking mark on it?

Yeaaaa, that one.

Well, while I was driving down Adams Street in Quincy as I normally do, a little old lady in a big old Buick decided that she didn’t like being parallel parked, didn’t feel like checking her mirrrors, and desperately felt like meeting a nice young man.

There wasn’t another fucking car on the road. Not one. And the distance of wide open road that she had to view my car coming down the street, had she checked any fucking mirror in her car, was 50 yards. Yet, the moment that my front bumber passed hers, she hit the gas and pulled out…right into the side of my fucking car.

Even though I swerved, she still managed to run the nose of that Buick right down the fucking side of my car. So, it’s not like she gently inched out just a wee granny inch. No. I was trying to get away from her like Hansel running from the old witch, and she was still stepping on the gas like Granny fucking Amphetamine.

That’s about the time that I think I just started yelling FUCK! at the top of my lungs. At one point I actually yelled it so hard that I bent forward at the waist. Then, I calmed down, and listened to the lady say little old lady things like, “I just don’t know what happened.” Well, I do, you fucking dumb ass. It’s pretty simple. You didn’t look, and you pulled out into the side of my car and kept going like it wasn’t even there.

I calmed the lady down, explained that these things happen, and even apologized for all the swearing. Then, I just drove the fuck home with no way to even get in touch with an insurance agent or a body shop tonight, which should be keeping me awake. I really should be stewing about this, but I’m not. I think all the yelling and the fact that I’m going to put some driving game into the PS2 to smash the fuck out of some Buicks is keeping me pretty calm.

I wonder if this will become so common as the baby boomers age that we’ll all just start buying crappy, Mad Max style cars to avoid the two weeks and twelve headaches that accompany dealing with the body shop.

But at least she smashed into my car rather than my apartment, right? Right?

Number of “fucks” in this post to this point: 11
To round it to a nice dozen: Fuck.
A Baker’s Dozen: Fuck.
And a few for the road: Fuckitty fuck fuck fuck.

Posted in Anger