Notice the extensive damage to the driver's side door. Holy cowz, my
daughter packs a powerful wallop!
I suppose I am fortunate that I've rarely had to deal closely with the mentally unstable face to face. My temper isn't as quick to rise as it used to be, but that doesn't mean I'm thoroughly mellow in certain situations.
This morning, I took my daughter to the grocery store (the Druid Hills Food Lion in Martinsville), and when she got out, her car door bumped the driver's side door of the car next to us. Gently enough that Allison didn't even realize she had bumped it. Well, she didn't until the woman in the car came out screaming — and "screaming" is an understatement — that Allison had bashed her door on purpose and fucked up her car. Now, I looked at the woman's car door and my car door; there was not even a nick on either. I asked the woman to please lighten up, it was an accident, and there was absolutely no damage — not even a stray fleck of paint — on either car.
Oh, but we'd have none of that. Now, I get "YOU MOTHERFUCKER, JUST BECAUSE MY CAR IS A PIECE OF SHIT* DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN BASH IT WITH YOUR CAR DOOR!"
"Ma'am, it was an accident, my daughter apologized, and your car is fine."
"THAT DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER, AND MY CAR IS NOT FINE! YOU FUCKED UP THE DOOR!"
At this point, I confess I called her a twit.
Allison went into the store, and I moved my car to another spot for fear yonder loon might start bashing mine. After a few minutes, she came over to get my license plate number, so I went over to her car, took a photo of the massively extensive damage to her door (see above), recorded her license plate number (VA #UHD 9382, for the record), and offered to call the police if she had a problem.
More screaming and hysterics. I was sufficiently rattled that I failed to make a video of this. I did, however, have Brugger on the line, so she was treated to the entire exchange. I finally told our excitable victim of car door bashing that she was unstable and got back in my car.
Once Allison came out of the store, I took her home. However, since I hadn't been comfortable leaving my car unattended, I never did get what I needed at the store, so I went back up the road. Our favorite lady was still in the parking lot, now gesticulating wildly to two fellows (I'm guessing husband and son) at the extensive damage following our spectacular collision. By their expressions, they were stunned — STUNNED — that someone could have fucked up her car so severely. At least one of them went back into the store. Now, since unstable people make me nervous and ornery, and I really didn't want to get into the position of doing something I might regret,** I just left and picked up lunch elsewhere.
I trust that will be the end of it. Well, other than writing it up here and hopefully making you glad that someone other than you had to deal with this particular unhinged human specimen.
*Well, there were lots of dings on her car (none, zero, nada from mine), which together appeared to paint a detailed portrait of a long history of dinging.
**Knowing me, I might have.