The last time I got the munchies at midnight and decided to go to Jack in the Box, I walked outside only to discover a fire five feet from my house. "Wow, it's a good thing I'm such an enormous pig!" I thought as I put out the fire. "Otherwise, I probably never would have gotten the chance to use a fire extinguisher in my life!"
Last night, I was driving to Jack in the Box when I noticed something funky about an oncoming car. And by "funky," I mean "an enormous shard of metal was hanging three feet into my lane." I swerved to avoid him, then ran over a debris field of twisted metal and broken glass. That's when I noticed the other car, wrecked in the end of someone's driveway. The home owner was rushing out to the scene. While she called 911, I chased after the other car, caught up to him, videotaped him, and got his license plate.
The two rear-ended octogenarians are, I'm told this morning, hurting but okay. Which leaves me to complain about the following people:
- Octogenarian drivers. Sure, for all I know, they were driving skillfully and predictably. This would make them unprecedented in the annals of Metamuville Road. Where there is an accident, there is invariably a whiff of Geritol and Brylcreem.
- Hit and run drivers. If you're going to be an asshole, at least do the world the courtesy of outrunning a Prius.
- Cops. Our hero arrived well before the ambulance. His priority: he wanted to know what I'd found about the hit and run driver, then left the scene to go after him.
Road: still littered with debris.
Old people: still strapped unconscious into their wrecked car. Classy.
- Christians. As the scene played out and the loved ones assembled, it became clear that they were 1) Christian and 2) inclined to view me with some sort of confirmation bias. My involvement, you see, was evidence of "Christ's hand at work." Yep. I hear that all the time.