Dear Jackass Who Sideswiped my Car:
Judging by the size and depth of the paint lines you left on the passenger door, there is no way you did this without realizing.
And honestly, if I wanted white stripes, I would have gone for a much more professional design.
But my car is not a ’79 Camaro (I had one of those — with a stripe — in college).
It is a 2006 Taurus.
As you know.
Because you HIT IT!
I don’t know if you introduced your car to my car in the strip mall where I was enjoying Starbucks Thursday morning, or in the lot on Hope Street later in the day, or in the church lot on Bedford and Third last night where I was waiting for Catherine to finish her volleyball practice. Frankly it doesn’t matter.
There was no 2×2-foot white smudgy thing on the car when I went to work Thursday morning, but it sure caught Basil’s attention this morning as he left for the office. He came back inside to ask what I had done.
Listen, I know it’s not a sexy, flashy vehicle, but it’s a good, reliable car, and it surely wasn’t bothering you sitting quietly in its parking space.
I can only think you made a conscious decision to drive away after dragging your bumper along my car’s left flank.
So, tell me why you couldn’t get out of your car and find me to apologize, take responsibility, offer to fix the mess.
Were your hands too busy texting to put the car in park?
Were you gabbing on the phone — maybe asking your significant other something important like: “Where are you? What are you doing?”
Maybe your legs are broken and you couldn’t step out of the vehicle.
Or perhaps you’re just another insufferable, entitled jerk.
When I misbehaved as a kid, my mother always wished aloud that history would repeat itself.
Tonight, I offer you The Mother’s Curse redux: May you encounter motorists exactly like you.
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