Last night, on the way to dinner, while stuck in a minor traffic jam behind an accident a quarter-mile or so up the road (ironically, we discovered soon thereafter, a rear-end collision), I was struck from behind. Struck lightly, but enough that I got out of the car to examine the damage. Of the two drivers involved, then, that made a total of one who got out of his car to examine the damage.
The other shining argument for retroactive birth control just sat in his car, talking on his cell phone without any apparent acknowledgement that he had even hit me, despite the fact that when I got around to my rear bumper, his front bumper was still in contact with it. I looked at him, and he vacantly returned my gaze, never once interrupting his conversation. I gestured that he needed to back up so I could see what damage had been done. He did. So I know he wasn’t comatose.
I looked and found no significant damage, so I looked back at him, still buckled in safely behind the wheel, talking on his phone. I said through the windshield, “You need to be a little more careful,” and returned to my drivers seat.
Not once did this brainless waste of carbon ever in any way indicate that anything had happened that involved him. As we continued to inch toward the flashing blue lights tending to the accident up ahead, I seriously debated stopping when we got to the accident scene and telling one of the police officers there that the guy behind me had been smoking a joint, in a vain attempt to get his sorry, worthless hide inconvenienced. Alas, he gave up and turned around before we got there.
Here’s a piece of advice for you for next time, asshat: Some people aren’t nice like me. Some people get angry when they are or their property is struck, especially when struck by someone so lost in his goddamned cell-phone conversation that he can’t even get out of his car to show the slightest fucking consideration for having struck someone else. Some people carry firearms in their cars, balls-for-brains, and don’t have the self control I do.
