Three Cases.

I hesitate to write this, seeing as the last thing I wrote related to my car was soundly defeated by a pop-tart, but considering I spend probably eighty per cent of my time in said car, it stands to reason that many of my experiences-turned-hilarious-anecdotes would stem from my decadent participation in our fossil fuel driven economy. If you are bored or unentertained by my usage of my vehicle as a delivery system for poor jokes, bad stereotypes or split infinitives, I suggest you click off the offending page now, head over to the nearest reference library, discover who coined and popularized the term "Write what you know," and spend the rest of your days searching for his or her tombstone so as to litter it with graffiti and flown middle fingers. And piss, too. That'd be good. Don't bother sending me emails or comments housing your complaints. My solipsistic leanings have instructed me to simply not care.

1. The Case of The Forgotten Accident.
A few months ago, I was driving to Guitar Center with my friend Steve, when, upon changing lanes perhaps too hastily on a very busy street, we found ourselves rear-ended. While we were driving about 30 mph, the offender couldn't have been going more than 40-45 mph. So, it was a minor accident. Not to see Steve's reaction, though. He jumped as violently as I imagine he would if I intentionally ran down two pairs of beauty pageant triplets. Maybe his reaction was not so out of place. Maybe mine was. You see, this marked the third time I had been rear-ended in this car. Once, my girlfriend hit it in my driveway (I admit that I was not in my car when this happened. I was in hers.). Then, a stoned teenage gangster hit me at a light, whereupon he threatened to "beat my ass" when I told his annoying, yelly sister to "shut the fuck up." And so now, this. No big deal. I told Steve to stop freaking out and pulled over into a Michelin Tire. Steve cited previous back problems as the reasoning behind his outlandish reaction, and so the subject was dropped.

I surveyed the damage and asked the young woman who hit me if she was alright. But, probably in the reverse order. She was fine, and her car had little to no damage. My rear fender, already scratched, was a bit more scuffed now, and part of the right side had popped out a little- something I could easily fix had I the wherewithal to do such things. I don't, and so it hasn't been yet. Of course, the police were not called. I gathered the girl's insurance information and told her I'd call her if I decided to report it. I had already decided, however- not having insurance myself at the time, I felt it would be unfair to tarnish her driving record and hike up her insurance rates for such a petty accident, and, had the situation been reversed (even though that would never happen, since I am an impeccable driver), I would hope she would do the same. Especially since she wouldn't have had a choice.. *ahem* We went our separate ways, an inconsequential bumping on an inconsequential day.

And that, as they say, was that.

A few days ago, one of the girls who I have worked with at the pizza hole for nearly four months now was relating past experiences of waiting on people at Denny's to me. I said, "Oh, maybe that's where I know you from, 'cause I swear you look familiar to me." That's when she said, "No, you wanna know where you know me from? I can tell you exactly. Remember that time you got rear-ended?"

"That was you?! Why haven't you said anything about that this whole time?"

"I dunno," she said.

Well, that shut me up.

2. The Case of The Nearly-Decade-Old-Lame-Thing-To-Do-To-Someone-If-You-Are-A-Fucking-Asshole.
Not much explanation is needed for this. But, let me paint the scene: Driving home from the dog park last week with my sweet hound, Story (she's not really a hound), windows down, radio up, tongues slapping various things as we roamed the freeway at 70mph (hers, the outside paint on the side of my car, mine, a soda, or possibly a cigarette, though I try to keep them as dry as possible when I use them), a warm southerly breeze drifting in and out of the car like so many ghosts, I took solace in knowing that I had just made my dog's day, even though nefarious, self-righteous pricks had unsuccessfully attempted to humiliate both her and I while at the dog park (explanation of this statement will be appearing here posthaste..) and that I would not be participating in waged slavery for at least 54 more minutes. I began exiting the freeway, as I am wont to do when the proper occasion presents itself. Then this happened.






Look! You can see my house from here!

That's right. Paintballs. Drive-by paintballing. Wow. Didn't that shit go out in like 1998?

3.The Case of the Forbidden Boob.
While I wasn't in my car during the following story, it is sure that had I not owned a car, I certainly wouldn't have found myself in Como, one of the supposed ghettos of Ft. Worth (frankly, it's a lot nicer than some of the neighborhoods I've lived in), standing inside the house of a freshly showered woman who was blasting gospel music. Wearing nothing but a loose-fitting robe, the woman bent over to sign a credit card slip, and pop!, out comes a breast. While making a small attempt to pull her robe over the exposed no-no, it is clear that she was either a) clearly comfortable with her body and did not mind exposing it to bearded strangers or, b) hoping I would look at it, because the small movement of fabric did nothing to cover the escaped pouch of flesh. So, I looked at it, that's all. Not sexually or anything- just a look. A curious extended glance, a perhaps shared understanding between the two of us, nothing more. What was I supposed to do?! Then she gave me a very generous $5 tip. And a handjob.