The next day I went to lunch. I had to deposit a pay check during my half hour lunch break so I phoned in an order at my new favorite deli, piatto pronto while walking out to my car. When I was about 15 feet away, I stopped dead in my tracks. This is why.
Someone in my quickly gentrifying neighborhood practiced an act of random aggression against my car, my new car, the one I just got in October for thousands of dollars that I don’t have. Someone ran a lap around my car, in a well-lit area, on a constantly busy street, scrapping a key against my paint job. Deep. I don’t think that I’ve pissed anyone off this badly, ever. I think it’s a pointless and random act of vandalism against my paint job. Now, I am not a materialistic person, and I try to avoid connecting happiness with inanimate objects but I choose to buy this car and I really like it and I don’t want a scratch circling the entirety of it, reminding me every time I go to my car that some impressively insignificant heap of human bullshit thought that it would be fun to scratch up my paint job. So now I have to shell out the $500 insurance deductible so that it can get repainted. The entire car must be repainted, except for the roof. Yes, every single piece of metal on my car was scratched up by this rancorous douche-ass. My last vehicle was a pick-up truck. I miss that truck. The more dings, scratches, mud, rust, and holes on it, the better it looked. That is not true with the scion. So I have decided to do the noble thing and insult my car’s aggressor with the finest of Shakespearian insults.
To the loathed issue of thy father's loins;
In civility thou seem'st so empty. In fact, thou art i' th' worst rank of manhood. For your offence, thou shall stand in fire up to the navel and in ice up to th'heart, and there th'offending part burns and the deceiving part freezes, thou bootless sheep-biting scut! Bathe Thyself, thou villainous half-faced ruttish flap-mouthed coxcomb! Thou frothy pox-marked nut hook. Thou art a dull and muddy-mettled rascal. Thou art a fishmonger. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it. May the worms of conscience still begnaw thy soul.