The Insurance-less

I know times are tough, but unless you live in a city the size of Singapore or have committed to traversing about the open plains via mass transit, give friendly folks at Geico a call. Last week while heading north on the Taconic Parkway to visit some redneck relatives a deer darted in front of my recently acquired Camaro.

Now I’m no formula 1 driver, but according to Cole Trickle the worst thing to do when faced with a head on collision is to stomp on the breaks. First, you run the risk of veering into even more hazardous circumstances and second, even if you manage to keep the car straight, the dick monkey behind you will likely ram you into a whiplash sponsored wonderland.

Thinking that a baby buck was no match for my American metal … um fiberglass … I floored the sucker, dreaming of venison stew and mounted antlers. To my surprise however, the agile creature pulled a Matrix-like mid-air time stoppage jammy the result of which was a kicked in windshield and a largely unscathed Bambi daddy.

In that instant I experienced a variety of emotions: gratitude to the Days of Thunder writers for helping me narrowly escape doom, empathy towards animal rights activists who suggest that we are encroaching on natural habitats, and embarrassment for … well … I indeed had a load in my shorts. Of course all three were ass-kicked to the curb a second later when the Honda driving Mexican Motorist to my rear collided with my now totaled muscle car. Clearly he wasn’t a movie buff.

I suppose I should be thankful. Bruises asides, I walked away from a horrific looking crash site. The bitch of it was neither the deer nor the cerveza sipper had insurance which left me paying for an accident I didn’t cause. Now you’d expect such behavior from socialistically inclined wildlife, but as for the Fast and the Furious wannabe out there, you sir should be ashamed. Seriously, it’s only fifteen minutes, amigo. And you know that lizard-like pitch man hablo Espanol. Thanks for the highway turd.