An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Chick Magnet

I don't know what it is-- maybe it's the knobby knees or the jumped up teeth, or perhaps it's the way my narrow ass looks in corduroys, but, whatever it is, hot chicks just throw themselves at me.

Well, they crash into me.

Rather, they crash into my car.

In short, my nine-year-old entry-level Volvo sedan is a chick magnet.

Yesterday, I had the distinct misfortune to be working the 7a-3p shift at work. It was for the best, really, as the weather was awful. I left work full of optimism and enthusiasm for the evening I was going to spend with my buddy. We had big plans. I was going to drive her to a small, indie fabric store 70 miles away so she could purchase... um.... robot fabric. To make a dress.

We're nucking futs. And a little bit in love.

Of course, before this insanity could begin, I had to make it home. Usually, this is not such a complicated task. However, I knew my ride home was going to take longer than usual when I found myself behind a newish white Toyota Corolla being piloted by someone who was, shall we say, less-than-attentive? The driver of the Corolla was driving approximately 18-miles-per-hour in a 25 zone, and then maybe kicked it up to just above 25 when the speed limit changed on another road to 35. That was annoying. Then, it got alarming as she continually drifted left, driving on top of the double yellow line, and twice crossing it with the left half of her car.

Now, being a do-gooder (read: narc) at heart, after about two or so miles of this happy horseshit, I made up my mind to call the police on her. Then, she put on her left turn signal and drifted her way into the left lane.

"Good," I thought, "she's turning. Fuck her, I just want to go home," I thought, slipping the phone back into my pocket. I stayed in my lane on the right and went straight, happy to be passing her and letting her fuck up someone else's day.

Silly me.

Without warning nor rhyme nor reason, she quickly veered right and slammed into the driver's side rear passenger door of my car.


I let some choice words fly. Then I pulled over, put on my hazard lights, and called the police-- something that, clearly, I should have done earlier. Of course, had I done that, I most likely would have missed out on the opportunity to lay my eyes on a pair of truly outstanding breasts.

See, the operator of the Corolla came bounding out of her car. She had dyed black hair, too much make up, and not enough clothing. Her jeans appeared to have been painted on, and her top was, I believe, made out of paiper mâché. She was in her late thirties, maybe 38, which was probably her bust measurement, if you put DD after it. I opened my passenger side window when she approached and bent over to stick her head into my car. She had evidently forgotten her brain and her bra before she set out on her little drive.

"Oh my God, are you okay? I'm so! sorry! I just didn't see you!"

I was very angry, and admittedly a bit aroused.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I snapped, "but I don't know what the hell you were doing there for, like, two miles. You were really driving like an idiot,"

"Oh! I was just trying to get onto the highway!"

They jiggled because she was all upset and shit. It was kind of funny.

"Yeah, well, I was just about to call the police on you before you hit me, and they're on their way now. And I don't really have anything else to say to you, so I think you'd better just get back in your car and wait."

"The police are coming?" she cried.

"Yes. Goodbye," I said, rolling up my window as she removed her head.

Damn, I thought as I sat waiting for the first responding radio car, this cop had better be gay or a chick, because if some young horndog gets a look at those things, he's going to find me at fault and leave this accident scene with her phone number.

Fortunately, two officers responded and, after the information that both of us gave, I was released and she was not only found at-fault, but was "further investigated to determine her safety to be operating a motor vehicle."

Boo. Yah.

The only other time I was involved in a traffic collision was two years ago. I was turning out of a Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru when I was rammed by a fuck-me-red Nissan 350Z. It was also pouring rain then, just like it was yesterday. And, just like yesterday, the driver of the other vehicle was, um....


A twenty-ish, long-haired, blonde, leggy, Russian professional aesthetician and masseuse on her way to, um...


And, back then, I wasn't even driving the sex-symbol, femme-fatale-attracting Volvo. I was tooling around in my wife's 2001 Chrysler PT Cruiser.

Which, of course, had "chick magnet" written all the fuck over it.

1 comment:

  1. Glad you're alright! Also glad you weren't nice to Boobarella. I've been actively trying to be meaner to jerks, because my non-confrontational personality usually takes over.


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!