You bastard. You thoughtless, brainless, gelatinous mass of stupid.
You certainly were in a hurry, weren’t you? You just couldn’t wait to be wherever the hell it is you needed so desperately to be. So you ran that red light. You ran it, not slowing down a bit through the intersection. And so you slammed right into my father’s car. The driver’s side, I might add.
If my father had been going any faster through that LEGAL green light, you would’ve slammed into the driver’s side door instead of merely the door joint. My father could’ve been seriously hurt, you ignorant little prick, and might have been nonetheless if Dad hadn’t been wearing his seat belt.
I’m glad my father wasn’t hurt. I thank God that he was able to come home and tell me about the accident instead of me hearing it from a stranger in a phone call. No thanks to you, you heaping mass of putrescence.
The car’s in the shop right now, and we have a rental car, which is nice, I guess. But nothing compares to being able to wrap my arms around my Dad and kiss his cheek tonight.
You were lucky this time, pal. If my Dad had been hurt, if even the white part of his fingernail had been broken off, your ass would be in a world of trouble, I’d make sure of it. I would see you prosecuted to the FULL extent of the law, instead of the two measly tickets you garnered that day.
So, in closing, I say this to you. Fuck you. Fuck you with a sandpaper-covered machete coated in that acid used to remove warts. I hope you get reamed royally by both your insurance company and the garage fixing our banged-up little car. And then, the machete again.
And, finally, a miniscule thank you for making me appreciate my Daddy that much more.
But mostly the machete.