The other day, for the second time in a month, someone rammed into my Grand Prix. I was sitting at a stop light when a mini-van rammed into my Pontiac. Getting rear-ended is so gay. Seriously. Getting rear-ended is as gay as getting rear-ended by a gay. Say again?
Anyways I got out of the car and started yelling like a madman. "I have a bag of grenades!" I shouted to the woman in the mini-van. "Your mini-van is about to get it!"
"I promise you'll get it once I throw a grenade towards you!"
Actually none of that grenade stuff happened. The woman driving the mini-van was very apologetic. She said she was sorry, and asked if there was any damage to my machine. I checked, and told her she was "one lucky fool of a woman". The Pontiac hadn't been harmed. It would drive another day.
Despite her apology, I was very worked up after the ordeal. How dare she hit my Pontiac? It's an American machine. Sleek and stylish, many say it looks like "A Silver Bullet". Are these people who hit me terrorists? Do they want to destroy my American Silver Bullet? Should I install a "spikey bumper"? There was a lot to think about, and I needed to relax.
So after the accident, I went home and did the only thing in the world that can completely relax me. Guzzle down some beers while listening to "Christopher Cross - Sailing" and pretending that my dead dog Bitsy is in my arms.