An Epic Tale, part 2

If you recall my last post, I played "Days of Thunder" with a drunk douchebag who ended up fleeing the scene.  I reported him as a hit-and-run and filed a claim with my insurance company.  A couple of days after I took my car in for an estimate, I was driving home after work and a deer ran out and slammed into the car in front of me, bouncing up into the air and spinning around.

I didn't even have time for an "Oh sh*t!" before the Spinning Deer of Death, which seemed to be as big as a Peterbilt, ricocheted off my car, too.  It didn't feel like it hit very hard and I was tempted to keep driving but, since the car in front of me pulled over, I thought I would stop to make sure the driver was okay.

It was THIS BIG.

When I opened my car door, however, I experienced a curious sensation that could only be described as "my f*cking door won't open." After I forced my way out, I saw the entire front fender had been crumpled in like a beer can. The woman who'd hit the deer first had called 911, and was waiting for them to show up.  Knowing this was covered under the portion of my insurance policy referred to by industry professionals as the "sh*t happens" clause, I knew the police wouldn't be able to do much, but I stuck around anyway. One impotent state trooper later, I was on my way home and calling my insurance company to file another claim.

After my second claim and subsequent estimate, I made an appointment to take my car to a local body shop with a good reputation and, more importantly, a practice of paying 10% of the deductible.  This is where the story gets bizarre and, if you're anyone but me, pretty funny.

I had actually planned to write the entire sequence of events, but it was too depressing and was edging into novella territory; also, being a blog, I need to keep in mind my target audience has the attention span of squirrels on crystal meth.  So I decided to consolidate the experience into a series of brief and easy-to-read bullet points.

1) Picking up my car after the repairs are done, I notice some paint drips on the front quarterpanel, and a series of circular scratches on the driver's door pillar, etched into the rear driver's door glass, and ground into the rear bumper.  It looked like someone let their pet monkey detail my car.  I brought their attention to the issue and, after the proper amount of sympathetic sounds and appropriately-stern expressions, a nice man named Jim drove me to work, telling me his fascinating rags-to-riches story of his early life as a migrant worker so that, by the time he dropped me off, not only did I feel bereft without my Kia, I also I felt a little bit like a dick for being born in America.

"Even now, we're working harder than you."

 2) They called me later that afternoon to tell me they needed to replace the glass and that I could have the company car the next day.  After hearing three separate times that I could have the company car, I was a little surprised when I showed up to learn one of the shop managers had loaned it to his girlfriend for the day.  The upside, though, was that Jim let me use his car.  His very own personal car.  I tried to tell him I didn't want to drive it but, since I had a doctor's appointment, I didn't have much of a choice.  Before I pulled away, Jim helpfully pointed out that he hadn't put the sticker on his license plate, which was about 3 months out of date.

3) They replaced the glass that day, and my car was ready to go when I came to pick it up that Friday afternoon.  Except the glass was not, technically, tinted and there were still paint drips on the front fender.  They informed me their tint guy was on the verge of death and wouldn't be in until the following Monday or Tuesday, and that they would call me to schedule a time for the tinting.  I detect a subtle touch of hostility in Jim's tone, even though he's smiling.

4) Two weeks pass...

5) I get a call from Jim who says that I still have an outstanding balance of $150.  I calmly inform him that he must be smoking crack since they still owe me a window-tinting and need to fix the remaining paint drips. When he offers to schedule me for the tinting, I drop the whammy on him: the glass in my car is smoked glass from the manufacturer, which means it's not tinted with a film, but actually infused within the glass. Jim tells me they'll order the glass and schedules an appointment.  Of course, I ask him for the company car, and he heartily promises to give it to me.  I'm secretly convinced that he harbors a grudge against me for being an entitled gringo asshole, but I don't say anything.

6) When I get to the shop, the company car is there waiting for me!  Yay! I can just hop in and actually won't be more than a few minutes late to work, where I....ummmm ... Jim?  The company car is out of gas, Jim. Why is the GODDAM COMPANY CAR OUT OF GAS, JIM?!  I offer to fill it up if they deduct it from what I owe.  They counter by offering to have Jim run and fill up the tank, which will only take about 10-15 minutes.  No stranger to negotiation, I quickly riposte with "Never-goddam-mind.  Just take me to work, Jim."

7) The next day, I arrive to pick up my car, but I can't have it because the glass they ordered was the incorrect kind, so that's another day without my car.  This time, though, they have the company car gassed up and ready to go!  I'm tired of Jim's cheerful attitude. I know he's faking it.  Yes, I was born here, Jim!  Get over it!

8) I drive the company car back that night and guess what ... my car is ready to go and it looks beautiful!  HAHAHAHAHA!  Fooled ya!  No f*cking way I get off THAT easy!  Nooooo, they got the wrong glass AGAIN.  Since there are only three types of window glass to install in my Kia, and they've already guessed wrong twice, statistics are on my side this time.

"Statistically speaking, he's almost angry enough to hate-rape a gorilla."

9) The next morning, I show up and I get a special treat: while they're installing the window glass today, I won't have to drive the company car or Jim's slightly illegal Impala.  No, today I get to drive some random motherf*cker's Ford truck. I don't know who this truck belongs to, though I suspect some other customer just dropped it off and they're letting me use it.  I wouldn't be surprised if some other guy is driving around in my Kia while he's waiting for his car to be fixed.  I don't really care anymore.  I just take the keys without saying anything and leave.  At least I don't have to drive Jim's car again, that smug self-made bastard.

10) Something different happens today; Mr. Bigshot Jim himself drives over to my office in my Kia. While we're exchanging keys, he gives me a good news-bad news scenario: the bad news is they got the new glass installed but, due to an oversight by the pet monkey, the window mechanism scratched the new glass and they have to reschedule a time replace it again.  Good news is, for all my trouble, they got me a $25 gift card for Meijer's. Jim hands me the card and mutters "It'll help a little bit."  Help what, Jim?  Help assuage my wounded pride?  Help me get laid? Help me fill the empty void of my meaningless little life?  I'm sorry I wasn't a migrant worker, Jim! I'm sure YOU could feed YOUR entire family for a YEAR on that much, 'cause you're just so f*cking PERFECT. 



The hidden message of gift cards



11) Caught up in the exhilaration of getting a gift card to a store I never shop in, I forgot my gym bag in the random Ford.  The next morning, I drop by the shop to grab my bag and have a couple words with the shop manager.  I inform him that, due to the problems I've been having with them fixing my car, I really don't think I should have to pay the entire $150 I owe. He offers a couple of useless arguments that I swat casually aside and finally asks me to "name what I think is fair."  I said "$75."  I realize that 'fair' for me is more like "zero", but I felt like I had to name a price.  He responds with "So you want $75 off, or to pay $75?" I start to laugh, thinking he's f*cking with me, then I see that he's serious.  For those of you who were absent on math day, $75 is exactly half that amount.  Which is kinda what I said to this guy: "Um, well, however you want to work it, it kinda turns out the same ... you know ... half ... "  Then I got up and left.

This is where I left it.  My rear window still has a scratch on it and I'm waiting for them to call me and schedule another time to bring my car so they can f*ck it up again. Maybe I'll keep you posted, but I'll probably just wait another month or two so I can fill up another blog with this ridiculous bullshit.  Maybe by then Mr. Bigshot Jim would have stopped judging me with his eyes.  I hate that guy.

An Epic Tale, part 1

Back on December 2, I was driving to the theater to get ready for opening night of my play.  As I was veering into the right lane to exit, some douchebag comes bombing up behind me and proceeds to follow me at a distance of about 4 centimeters until, right before the exit, he tears around me and steers into the exit ahead of me.  At this point, my brow was furrowed in annoyance at the gall of this...WHOASHIT!  He SLAMMED ON HIS BRAKES in the middle of the exit, thereby forcing me to swerve onto the right shoulder where any normal person would have simply slowed or stopped and let the douchebag keep going. 

But I think we've determined I'm not very normal. 

So I put two wheels up on the curb and hammered it.  Douchebag sped up to keep me from passing and, in doing so, managed to scrape my left rear fender with his front right quarterpanel. Once the guy's car rubbed against mine, shit got real. I briefly contemplated a maneuver I think I saw on Dukes of Hazzard where I brake briefly, crank the wheel hard left and T-bone the guy's car into a nearby concrete barrier.

Yeah, it was pretty much like that.

Anyway, we end up both pulling over to the right shoulder (actually, since I was already there, I just stopped).  Douchebag gets out of his car, screaming "What the f*ck is your problem?!" and hurls a half-full beer can at my car.  At this point, my eyebrows have knitted themselves into a deep knot of testosterone-fueled fury and I've already decided the two or three best ways to take this clown out.

I step out of my car and advance towards him and say, in my most reasonable tone of voice, "WHAT THE F*CK IS YOUR PROBLEM, BITCH?!  HAH?!  WHAT THE F*CK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!"  Though I often lament the spare tire I carry around my midsection, being big and heavy is a pretty handy accompaniment to righteous fury (I was NOT dressed as a troll, which probably helped my credibility, but would've made a much better story if I'd had my green makeup on).

What the f*ck is YOUR problem, bitch?!  HAH?!

Douchebag literally closes his mouth in mid-sentence and backs up toward his car.  I advance to within spittle-spray range, waving my arms around like a coked-up gorilla, and ask again, just for clarification, just what the f*ck he thought he was doing.  The primal part of my brain had taken over and reduced my entire vocabulary to this one question, which I kept repeating until the analytical part of my brain started shooting nervous glances over at my primal brain and muttering "Dude, chill."

In response to my insistent questioning, Douchebag finally mumbled "You kept cutting me off, man."

"Kept cutting you off?! I was EXITING! What the f*ck am I supposed to do?!" I was doing that arm-waving thing again, so I stepped back and took a breath to calm myself, then said "Great.  Now we have to exchange insurance information."

Douchebag looks at me with a smirk, says "Oh, do we?", then slides into his car and drives away.

I gaped at his car as he pulled away, stunned that he'd just driven off while I was being self-righteous.  Then I realized this actually worked in my favor.  I could report him to the police as a hit-and-run, call my insurance company and STILL make it to my play on time.

Funny thing is, Douchebag has to be the only guy ever saved from an ass-beating by a children's play.


Run, douchebag, run!

 If there was any justice in the world, I would tell you the police caught Douchebag, violated him in a way that only pissed-off police officers can, then his insurance paid my deductible.  Of course, in reality, they never did track him down and I'm still in the process of getting my car repaired, which leads us into part two of our Epic Tale.  Stay tuned...