Saturday was fun kiddies!
Sit down around the fire. I swear I’m not gonna make stories about deranged killers loose in the wilderness kidnapping our fellow campers, gutting them and making bow ties out of their intestines and necklaces out of their teeth.

So saturday morning arrives, which means I must go deal with that annoying dent on my car which prompted the HUGE blog entry before this one (not that this one’s any smaller). I arrived at the "Obligatory Insurance" company at 8:15 a.m., thinking I was already late. The ancient piece of shit who smashed his car against mine still wasn’t there. Curse him. I take a turn and start filling up the form. In one section I had to describe the crash, and I made sure to sound as innocent as possible, and made the old fartbag appear as the evil villain who deliberately marred my precious vehicle.
Like, woe is me, and shit.
About an hour later I see a garish old lady arrive with a walking stick and half the Eiffel Tower supporting one of her legs. It was the hag that accompanied the Old Fart who smashed my car. He wasn’t far behind. They sit a few spaces away from me and don’t acknowledge I’m there until Old Fart looks to his side. He alerts the hag that I’m here as well and proceeds to shake my hand. For half a second I thought of ignoring his handshake, but I though hey, the old fart, even though he’s got the losing hand, has been a good sport all the way. At least he showed up.
What was remarkable is that two days after the collision he still smelled like cheap booze and cigarrettes. He spoke to me about shit I didn’t understand, I just nodded my head and tried to hold my breath as his foul stench slapped my face as if I were a two dollar whore.
Finally they call Old Fart and his gawdy companion to the front, and I go along with them. Never trust an old drunken bastard, I say. Just look at my uncle.
When they give him a form to fill and ask him to describe the crash, he says something that makes my blood fizz:

• Crusty Old Fart: Well, he smashed his car into us–
• Me: Wait. What?! That’s impossible. You drove your car into my lane.
• Disgusting Old Lady: Yeah, he hit us, he did.

At this point the toad-like lady, who was wearing a few pounds less of makeup today, suddenly jumped into the discussion, repeating the same bullshit as the old guy. The teller, seeing as Old Fart and me were about to start a blame war, settled us down and told him to start filling the form. I give him mine, since I already had filled my part. I was hoping he saw my description of the accident, so he could appreciate from my point of view wat a stupid piece of blind, drunken shit he is. I went to another corner and stood there waiting for him to finish. I could not bear sitting near those two puke buckets.
Finally they finish and hand the form. In a few minutes we’re called again, and a nice young teller asks us innocently to describe the crash and decide who caused it and who is the victim. The old guy was starting to go off again, so I cut him off by raising my voice a bit louder than him and using a bunch of ten dollar words. This seemed to work, since the teller stopped looking at Old Fart and was looking attentively at me. I explained what happenned while Old Fart and Yucky Lady tried to interrupt me. When I finished, the teller had made a decision:

• Teller Girl: (To Crusty Old Fart) Well, sir, then that makes YOU the cause of the crash.
• Crusty Old Fart: But he smashed right into me! I had my signal light on, I went left, and then he appears out of nowhere and I hit him. I didn’t see him behind me, he wasn’t there!

He was absolutely right. He had his signal light on, he turned left, he boinked my right side, but he also said those magic words: I didn’t see him behind me. That’s JUST what I needed them to hear. The teller, however, was getting tired of the old guy questioning her decision, so she asked the guy beside her, who seemed to be a veteran on the matter, for some assistance. The man heard the Old Fart rant and then heard my version. I decided to add a little bit of the Kaiser Drama Element when I said, at the end of my statement and with a look of faked outrage: "Look, I’m not going to argue anymore. Just look at the way the cars crashed. Look at where the impacts were made on each car. It’s IMPOSSIBLE for me to have caused the accident."
The Old Guy and The Icky Lady remained quiet. The veteran-looking teller guy then deals his verdict. Swift and deadly justice, like a blow to the head with a rusty shovel:

• Teller dude: (At Crusty Old Fart) We don’t need to pay you anything. YOU caused the accident.

I nearly tore off my lip muscles trying to supress a smile. Luckily I was wearing my shades still, just like the day before. I noticed that I had never taken them off in their presence, so I kept it that way. Besides, they are unfit to look at my magnificent face. *Ahem*
The old lady scouled like an angry pug, and the old fart finally shut the fuck up.
We went to the parking lot to have both car’s pictures taken, and I was surprised the Disgusting Old Lady still had the nerve to talk to me. She asked me where the "boy" was. By "boy" she meant Old Fart, who had gone outside to get their smashed car. Damn woman, if that old coot’s a boy, what does that make me, a sperm?
When it’s my turn to get photographed, I go outside to retrieve my car. By the time I return, both mummies had vanished without a trace.
Groovy. A few minutes later, my ordeal of the day is finished!!
Oh shit wait. I still need to get an appraisal for my car’s paint and repair job. I figured I might as well get all that shit over with as soon as possible, so I go get the damn appraisal. Lucifer pointed me towards a place that does it quickly for 20 bucks. I went, and It was over so fast I felt robbed. But I got what I wanted.
I was expecting to have at least $800 bucks in damages, but silly me, I told the lady that checked my car that the damage had been made BUMPER TO BUMPER on the whole right side. "He practically swiped the whole side", I said. She appraised over $3,700 in damages. Oopsie! Me and my big mouth.
Since I had so much time to spare, I went back to the insurance office half an hour before they closed, this time to deliver the final documents, so they would start dealing with my shit as soon as possible.
When the Teller Dude reads my name and sees me, he goes "why did ya take a number again? I already saw ya!". I told him not to tie his panties in a bunch. I just dropped by to leave the appraisal.

A few minutes later I got home, went to bed, and dreamed of Jesus Christ baring bloody fangs at me.

Hey don’t look at me funny, that’s the kind of fucked up shit I dream about.

Posted in Rants, WTF |

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