Crash and Burn (or just exchange Insurance details)

The above dent was the result of a nuclear explosion. Probably.

You might, if you’re one of the 7 or so people who read this blog, remember me writing about having to exchange my rental car (provided by my employer) for a new one, due to a pesky maintenance light on the dashboard (If you didn’t, go read it now; I’ll wait….). Well, it seems that was quite prescient of me – either that or my subconscious is an irredeemable asshole – because on Wednesday night I drove into the back of a 1967 Chevy Pick-up. Before I continue, there’s one thing you should know about driving into the back of a 1967 Chevy Pick-up in a 2012 Toyota Corolla: You.Will.Lose! It’s comparable to the time Darren Sproles ran into Ray Lewis (apt Super Bowl reference: check).

It was literally no more than a tap; it may have been the alcohol, but I barely felt it*. Of course, this could have been because my hood took all of the impact, and crumpled like the look of the guy’s face when he got out of his car. “What the fuck, buddy?” he yelled, looking at the ruins of my front grill. “Look what you’ve done to my…” and his eyes rested on his almost perfectly intact rear bumper. “What’s this?” he asked, dusting off a light scratch with his hand,” and this is all bent,” pointing at the almost noticeably buckled license plate. Of course, I don’t blame the guy: we were at the stop lights; he moved, I moved, he stopped, I didn’t. And if he puts a claim in, that’s understandable. What’s awesome is that no cops were called, he wasn’t hurt, I wasn’t hurt, neither of us had passengers, and the only car that had any significant damage belonged to a giant multi-national corporation.

Of course, it rattled the shit out of me. My hands are still shaking (could be withdrawals from the sedatives, but who’s counting; the effects linger). The next morning I went to the Hertz office and they were spectacularly awesome about it. As it turns out, I’m 100% covered for the whole thing. They didn’t have a replacement there and then (or at least not one they were willing to part with to the idiot Irishman who keeps wrecking our shit), so I came back the next day (the Corolla was still drive-able; it really was a minor crash) and they handed me the keys to a two year old Nissan Sentra with 50,000 miles on the clock, a rust-hole in the side, Utah plates, and – which I thought was a beautiful touch, intended or not – a giant dollop of birdshit on the hood. In rental car terms, this was the equivalent of Fred Flintstone’s ride. And I was eternally grateful, because for someone with so many innate tendencies to fuck my life up, it seems I’m one lucky bastard.

So, I’ve spent the last two days driving around like a 90 year-old on Xanax, and that still feels too fast. I’m determined not to wreck this. But don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know when I invariably do.

*No alcohol was involved during the making of this crash – that was merely a joke. Laugh dammit!!!