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Car Got Smacked In The Parking Lot By Some Asshole
Here are some journal
entries I wrote specifically for this site between the dates of
April 24 and May 20, 2002. In the continuing Rail! tradition,
there will be many speling errors, and overuse of commas (and
parentheseses). And the word and.
Enjoy my pain!
Day One: April 24, 2002
I drove to work this morning
in my shiny red 2001 Cavalierô. I just got it this January,
because I'm having an early mid-life crisis. The "CHECK
ENGINE" light is on pretty much all of the time, since it's a
Chevrolet, and Chevy's are made out of good-old-fashioned American
Dog Crap. I'm not very worried about this. I've already been to
the shop to have somebody look at it. It's just an emissions
problem, and it's covered by my warranty. Besides this specific
anomaly, I haven't had any problems with my car. I'm especially
happy with my CD player. Blasting the Misfits, I pulled into the
parking lot. I park in the far corner, about halfway out. I don't
want anybody to ding my door.
I went inside and clocked in
for the day. I had a pretty hectic day at work, so the time pretty
much flew by, and before I knew it, it was 4 o' clock: time to go
home. I was looking forward to my day off tomorrow. I planned to
work on the site a bit, maybe record some music, and mess around
with my copy of Photoshop Elements that I was expecting in the
I went out to my car and saw this
(Click to enlarge):
This is bullshit here, folks.
I said to myself, "Damn,
somebody's ride got smacked! Glad it's not mine!"
Then I took a closer look.
Wait a minute! This is my car!
If this were a movie, I'd look
up to the sky and shout, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Then I
would go kill all kinds of bad people in a warehouse or something,
and my police chief would yell at me for "endangering the
public", and I'd hand him my badge, punch him in the face,
and say, "Hasta la vista, baby".
Um, anyway, I begin to imagine
the person responsible for this heinous act. I begin drawing a
little profile in my head. I estimate that it was a senior
citizen. Drunk. With buck teeth (or no teeth), and overalls. And a
hat that says either "CAT" or some shit about Dale
Earnhardt. Driving a ridiculously large pickup truck. Well, sir (or
fat hairy madam), if you are reading this (as if you'd ever read
anything in your life besides gun magazines and Dr. Seuss books),
I'd like to tell you something.
Watch where you're going, you
inbred piece of shit.
Artist's sketch of the suspect.
Here's a question for you:
If I'm backing out of a
parking space, and I hear metal scraping against metal,
accompanied by a loud thud, I:
(A) Immediately apply the brakes. Find the owner of the car and
exchange insurance information.
(B) Keep on trucking! Plow right through that sumbitch!
(C) Hit my wife for no reason, then take another drink.
(D) Listen to Lynrd Skynrd.
Hint: The answer is (A).
In shock, I went back inside,
mostly just to tell my coworkers and boss, "Hey, someone hit
my car in the parking lot. What do I do?"
Jeanette (a coworker)
suggested that I call the police and file an accident report,
which I did immediately. I went up front,
and called the police. A police officer with a buzz cut arrived
within ten minutes (The buzz cuts make the police more aerodynamic
or something). He took a look at my car, and kept asking me
questions, as if he didn't trust me. He told me I'd have to stop
by the police station tomorrow to pick up my accident report.
Me: "Thanks a lot, nazi
Cop: "What did you
Me: "Man, that dent is
(Disclaimer: This policeman
was actually quite helpful. I made up previous conversation in an
attempt to be funny. Please forgive me.)
I called my insurance agent.
She told me I was going to have to pay a $250 deductible to get
the car repaired (Uninsured Motorist). This is the part that
upsets me. I have to pay because of somebody else's stupidity.
That's money I was planning to use for something! I'm almost angry
enough to turn green and grow pectorals. That'd be so cool. I'd
like to grow muscles just by getting mad, because I don't really
get much time to work out, and that would be a great time-saving
step. The "Get Pissed Workout!"
Oh, anyway, I'm pretty upset,
but I'm trying not to let it get to me. I'm
not going to worry about any of this until tomorrow. I tried to
distract myself from my little problem. I learned how to play
"We're Not Gonna Take It" by Twisted Sister tonight.
It's a pretty fun song to play, as long as you don't wear all of
the makeup and wigs and shit. That would just be gay. I also
messed around with Photoshop Elements for a while. It's not as
good as Photoshop Photoshop, but it takes up almost all of
my computer's memory, so it must be pretty good... I also decided
to write this journal for the site, so I get something out of this
April 25, 2002
I got my accident report from
the police station this morning. Took my weekly shower.
I called my insurance company
to get them to give me an estimate on my damages. Now, I'm not
going to refer to this insurance company by name, but they often
advertise that they will come to the scene and give you an
estimate on the spot. They told me that they couldn't send anybody
out to me because the guy that was going to handle my claim was in
training. Tell me your car's broke or something - don't tell me
that you're letting a newbie handle my insurance.
I had to drive to Rome, which
is about 30 - 40 minutes away. Gives me a chance to listen to some
music, but I would've rather stayed home.
The dude came out to look at
my car, and took some photos of with a pretty cool digital camera.
He went back inside the office. He came back out with a laptop,
and showed me the parts they would need to replace.
"Yeah, we'll write you a
check right now. You'll just have to handle your five hundred
dollar deductible", he said casually, in an attempt to rip me
"My deductible is two
hundred fifty", I spat back.
"Oh, yeah. I'll have to
look that up again" he mumbled.
Well, he gave me a check for
around 450 dollars, and he pointed me to a body shop down the
street. I drove to the body shop and set up an appointment for
Monday, May 6.
On the way back, I got lost in
a "bad" neighborhood. Fun, fun, fun. In order to blend
in, I pretended to be a crack dealer.
Today I set up an appointment
to get a rental car. I also figured that I could get that
"Check Engine" emissions problem repaired, so I called
up my dealer to get that part fixed. You know, the thingy or
I woke up early this morning
to get my car in to the mechanic to fix that emissions problem. I
sat in their waiting room for over an hour, when they came in and
told me that they ordered the wrong part - again. This is the
fourth or fifth time I have been to the mechanic for the VERY SAME
PROBLEM. The first time, they say it's a computer glitch, and they
updated the car's software. Second time, They tell me that they
have to order a part, and I have to come back in a week or so.
Third time, they take my car apart, and try to replace the
doohickey, and it doesn't fit. They've ordered the wrong part!
They tell me that they'll call me within a week, and they never
call. They forgot about me - so I called back about a month later
to make today's appointment.
And now, they order the wrong
part, for the second time in a row.
I'm beginning to get a little
impatient. I'll have to make another appointment next week.
I drove the car to the body
shop this morning, and waited for the lady from the magical rental
place to pick me up. She came through the door right on time. She
looked pretty decent. Not deformed or hairy or anything. I decided
to be friendly. Put on the old charm...
As we approached her car, I
saw the dreaded baby seat in the back. Oh, well. This one's
Like most women, she spoke of
her HUSBAND and her TWO-YEAR-OLD almost endlessly. This is a
natural defense mechanism that women develop while speaking to me.
If they feel that I'm being too friendly, they automatically
mention their "violent boyfriend" or their "18
bastard children". I get the point, lady. I can tell you have
a child, because (1) you have a baby seat and (2) the car is
teeming with the stale smell of urine. I'm not going to hit on
you, so you can just relax. Have some wine, baby. Naw, I'm just
trying to treat you right, sweet thang...
I dropped the rental car off
before I was charged for another day. On the way way back from
Rome, we went to Circuit City and I got a GeForce2 video card so I
can play the Spider-Man game (which is pretty cool, by the way).
Later today, I got a call from
the body shop telling me that my car is ready! After all of this,
I can finally have my car back! We'll finally have some closure,
and I can stop writing this journal! Has anybody actually read
this far? I like chicken!
We got to the shop, and I saw
my car as we drove up - good as new! I took a quick glance, and
went inside to pay. After that, I got to drive home in my own car
for the first time in days.
I got home and took a closer
look at the repairs. From the outside, you could never tell that
the car was ever damaged, but the inside of the wheel well
appeared to be the work of vandals. A long weld-mark scarred my
once beautiful automobile like the work of a ax-murderer strung
out on crack, PCP, and lighter fluid. Some plastic pieces that
were disconnected during the accident are still not lined up
properly. Bummer. Should I complain to the body shop?
Everybody at work told me to
complain to the body shop. According to the paperwork, they're
supposed to restore my car back to the way it was before this
little mishap. Do you know what? I give up. I don't care
anymore. It'd take too much time and money to fix a superficial
problem. Don't try to argue with me. (Putting fingers in my ears)
LA LA LA LA YA LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU LA LA LA!
This is birdshit here, folks.
Maybe this journal wasn't the
great idea I thought it would be. It's basically been three or
four pages of me complaining like a little bitch. I haven't really
felt much like writing for the past couple of weeks either, so
this article is late. Let me wrap this whole thing up in my usual
So, what have we learned
Don't park anywhere. Ever.