Tuesday, April 22, 2014

On the Road Again

On March 19th, an idiot kid who was staring at his cell phone drove into my beautiful 2002 VW New Beetle in a parking lot. And totaled it.

Possibly this is exaggerated.
But you weren't there, man.
This is so precious: The kid is the (I assume) grandson of a pair of local Century 21 realtors. Should I give their names? That would be tacky.

Stan and Mary Pritchard,
Judge Fite Realty.
Anyway, I don't think the kid ever told Meemaw and Peepaw that he drove their 2004 Honda Accord into another car because he was being a dumbass. Because when I filed a claim with his insurance company, he never answered their calls. And when I finally filed a claim with my own insurance company because I actually wanted something to get done, my insurance company couldn't get him to answer his phone, either.

Hey, kid, there's a thing called subrogation in the insurance world. It means that my insurance company will pay to get me into a new car and then totally go after your insurance company and/or your grandparents to fucking pay up. That might involve collection agencies, lawyers, whatever. I'm sure your real estate agent grandparents will appreciate being hounded because their Neanderthal grandson decided to conceal the fact that he destroyed a middle-aged mom's car (with her child inside it) rather than act as if he had fully descended testicles and own up to his stupid irresponsibility (or irresponsible stupidity, take your pick).

Also, his phone number totally isn't 972.207.4775 and you shouldn't call him and ask him how he's sleeping since wrecking Chuck Baudelaire's beloved Bug.

None of that is the point, because today I bought a new car, and I am in love with it.

It's a 2014 Ford Focus hatchback.

Such squee.
His name is Benedict Cumberhatch. Of course.

He is an economical, practical small car. Excellent safety ratings, good gas mileage, satellite radio (yes!!!), and I got a great deal. Like $6K below MSRP great deal. I am happy, people. So happy.

No, it's not a luxury car, or a sports car, or a fancy-schmancy import. It's just mine. My little American-made, adorable, under warranty Ford Focus hatchback. No BMW or top-o-the-line sedan could make me happier. Because this car is me.

It cost almost nothing, and I put almost 40% down. What.

I love Benedict Cumberhatch. I think Precocious Daughter and I will be very happy tooling around town in him. And probably he'll be the car in which she learns to drive.

Allow me to have a heart attack over that.

I love you, Bene (thanks for that nickname, Smee). Anyone need a ride? Because I'm driving, baby.


  1. I know this story isn't technically over yet and won't be until the kid or one of his family members pays up, but I love happy endings. Even ones that start from rear-endings.

  2. Ack! We have the same car, how weird is that?!?
    Highest fuel economy ratings, hell yeah!


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