Friday, June 1, 2012

Not Cheetara's day...

I wish I could find a way to prove to everyone that everything I write isn't always negative or violent. But when people persist on testing my patience... sometimes, I want to cry FOR them. Because life is going to be so hard.

I can agree that perhaps... maybe... just maybe... I may have gone a little overboard today. But I can honestly say that writing about it will help relieve me of any frustration that may be left over. At least for the sake of my wife and Cheetara... oh, and for those of you that don't know, Cheetara is my car... a sleek, sexy 2012 black on black Dodge Charger... seriously, her name is on her plate. Shut up.

Moving on, the day started nice and sunny... a comfortable and beautiful 79 or so degrees. What a perfect day to run some errands, get her oil changed, get her washed, pick up laundry, yadda yadda yadda. What could ruin it, right? Right.

So I get the call that she's ready and I head on over and take out my car thinking "Ok... should be an average of $35 as I've usually paid at least less than that but this time it's at the dealer."

You'd be logical to assume the estimate, but you'd be dead wrong. Fifty dollars. For a fucking oil and filter change. Five. Zero. Ten times five. Twenty-five plus twenty-five. I don't care how you put it, it came out to fifty. Thinking the same thing my wife did "Maybe they used some special 'last longer' oil."

You'd be logical to assume that. You'd be dead wrong. The oil cost $2.50 and they used six bottles. We're at $15 right there. The filter was $8.50, bringing us to $23.50. You mean to tell me that doing this cost about 200% in labor?? Really?! Ok, that's the last time Manfredi Chrysler Jeep & Dodge on Hylan Blvd in Staten Island get a dime out of me. Only time they'll see Cheetara is regarding something on my warranty. Fucking crooks. Should've learned my lesson when my regular doesn't-fuck-me-over Asian mechanic Dee told me he would've charged half the price of Manfredi's $800 bill on my wife's brakes.

It's not even the $50. I have a good enough job where it's like "Eh, it's needed. So, why not?" It's the principle. I mean, for an oil change, you'd think I would've felt some of the lube while I was being fucked in the ass.

Leaving there, I had to make a stop at ShopRite further down Hylan Blvd. I took a spot that was open at the very front where only one side had more parking, and the other were solid white lines, as in "No Parking Here, Morons" (I'm paraphrasing). I coast the solid white lines on my side so that, being the courteous humanitarian that I am, anyone that parks on my passenger side will have a little extra room.

You would be logical to think that. You would be wrong. I come out of ShopRite to find this woman's door wide open practically digging into my back passenger window. I wish I could say I was exaggerating. But I could literally see the metal on the door bending inwards (and to prove me right, I heard the noticeable *pop* as I moved the door off my car). The species (as I refuse to call them ladies as they were some inbred, straight-out-of-the-sticks gingers) were two women with a 2 year old and a toddler.
Excuse me if I'm rambling, but I want to paint a clear enough picture here as I play it back in my head in hopes that once I'm through, I'll be calm.

The one I assume was the driver (I would put her at about mid-20s, only because of her sidekick) had the two year old in arms. She spots me, and must've said something to her fellow creature (this one seemed slightly older, but wouldn't place her over 40, maybe 45) because she looked at me, and went back to removing the toddler from the back seat. I go around Cheetara, and I clearly and loudly claim "Um... excuse me!" Nothing. Not even a blink of an eye. I remove her door from my car (this is when I hear the pop) and just stand there as she finishes. She takes her car door, and slams it shut and walks off.

Nothing. No apology. No "Oh my goodness" as 'ladies' of her age would say. No even a look back. And that's all it would've taken for me to just look at her, say something meaningful in hopes of educating them like "Just try to be more careful" and move along. That's it. But the fact that all of a sudden, I felt like she was making this my fault...*sigh*... this is where I say I may...MAY...have overreacted.

Without even thinking twice about it, I lifted my leg and drop kicked the driver's sideview mirror. Again, I'm not even exaggerating... it didn't just bend back, it didn't hang off it's place... oh, nay, nay.
Mirror cracked.
Plastic broken right where it meets the door.
Pieces on the floor.

I honestly don't even care if she got my plate. I'm aware, as my wife pointed out to me, that I've got a very unique and memorable plate. So, be it. If I have to be some masked avenger that goes around teaching people lessons the hard way on driving etiquette, well, shit, I'll suit up!

Honestly, and again, something my wife pointed out to me, I know I live in New York. I know there'll be dings, and dents, and scratches, and blah blah blah here and there (and I cringe as I say it). But it's one thing if I don't see/hear it happen. But if I'm there, and you see me, and you're driving etiquette is horrendous... *sigh* may I have mercy on your soul.

Ok... not even gonna lie... I feel better. Heh... go figure. :-p