Grandma Got Run Over By A Jetta

Grandma Got Run Over By A Jetta
Current mood: violent
Category: violent Automotive

I rarely, if ever take stark notice of the automobile ahead of me. I may visually remark on a tacky bumper sticker, or perhaps secretly envy the make. This is the greatest extent of my relationship with the driver before me. I am the kind of driver who zones into a happy driving place, listening to music and annotating the grocery list. Most days, I'm lucky to get to the appropriated destination. Dont fear me as a driver; I'm conscious! I just like to stay calm and collected within the realms of my own vehicle, whilst the world rages outside. I let as many folks go before me as I can, and try to come to a complete stop whenever possible. Maybe it's the yoga, maybe it's the three trips to driver's retraining school. I'll render that up to ones own discerning.

Surmise my surprise when my lowly little self became the victim of road rage. The culprit? Why she could she could have been Uncle Sam's grandmother - and she had HER mother in the passenger seat. There I am, gallivanting along on a sunny, sticky Tulsa day, enjoying my day off. My cranberry VW Jetta, Velma Kelly, is cruising like a dream. Resting at a stop light, debating the merits of Panera for lunch, I notice the chartreuse Villager van before for the first time as the brake lights release and we cruise forward. Letting the van cruise first, I tail after, but not late enough. The van abruptly slams on its brakes out of nowhere. I can't stop, and despite most valiant efforts, poor Velma Kelly finds herself making out with the trunk of the wretched Villager.

Responding to my inner complex that instantly assumes everything is my fault, I jump from my car to apologize, and make sure the other driver is okay, especially when I see she is the poster child for assisted living. My empathy ebbs quickly once I see the smirk crease across her pruned lips. She crosses her arms and hisses, "That's what you get! You've been tailgating my ass since we got off the highway two miles ago! I'm calling the cops on your ass". As it begins to dawn on me that what has happened was no accident, I decide reticence is key. Collecting pieces of silver along the road that together once spelled VW, I listen to her go off on me. The front of my car is all bashed, and I feel my heart as it flushes into the toilet of my gut. Surveying the bumper of the villager, viewing scratches of different colors and sizes stretching to all sides, the old bitty comes up right up to my face and says, "You have insurance, right?".

Meanwhile, because we surely haven't created enough of a scene blocking the intersection, grandma decides to pull her fossil of a mother out of the passenger seat. OF COURSE the mother has one arm in a sling and one foot in God's waiting room. She seats the corpse on the grassy median and starts fanning her. "We'll all be OK". That's when considered citizens start pulling over to help. Oh no, not help me. The Devil's Spawn, and her mother. Naturally, the daring duo are telling their soliloquy to anyone who will listen, and naturally everyone is letting me know what they think of me for tailgating and running into two helpless old farts. Little did these "concerned" folks know that this Villager was just the Insurance Scamobile. The Jaguar and BMW were parked at the mansion. The Beamer is mom's. Yeah, you guessed it. The sling? Part of the act.

So when Tulsa's finest decides to show up, the geezer wheezes out her side before I can even hand the copper my license. He listens to her rant, and lets her go. Of course, she claimed to be injured from our massive collission. She gets on her cell phone and calls my insurance right from the parking lot, while mom glares at me through the passenger window of Hell on Wheels.

Could it end here? Of course not. Tulsa trooper makes me get into the car with him to tell him my side. Funny; He didnt invite the old bag in. He then starts telling me how pretty I am, asking if my eyes are really that blue. Saying that he's just flirting to make it easier for me. Let me just say, he was a fine specimen of human being, what with his gut protruding from his pants, his balding head, and his missing teeth. Oh, and a good twenty years on me. So after what seemed like a half-an-ever of Merle Haggard and smelly rent-a-cop graduate, he tells me the convalescent convicts basically told on themselves in their raving. She accidentally said she slammed on her brakes to get me off her ass. Sweet as pie, no?

So, after all this, I turn to leave. I can get in my poor dented Velma and take her to Panera for some lunch (about two hours overdue). As I grab my keys, Lieutenant charming halts me abruptly. "Not so fast, Missy"! Naturally, I'm panicked I'm going to be stuck in the copper car forever. "I need to give you a ticket"! When I ask him what for, he looks at me appalled and says, "For hitting two old ladies, of course!".