I get out of my car, she gets out of hers, all apologetic and we stand there, examining the damage to my bumper. It’s not bad and I decide I’m not going to give her a hard time about it, even though she was totally on her cell phone, not paying attention, as women are apt to do.
“Hmm, well the damage really isn’t bad, maybe we don’t have to get the insurance companies involved in this?” Big mistake, bitch. Now I’m pissed.
I tell her that, no, I’m actually going to have to see her insurance and she offers to pay me a couple hundred bucks to avoid having her premiums go up. I’m looking at the damage and really it’s nothing that a three dollar jar of touch-up paint couldn’t fix, but she’s really pushing my buttons now. If there’s one thing Chad Robuckle values above all, it’s his honesty and his integrity and I’m not about to compromise my good name so I can play nice and commit insurance fraud.
Her kids are screaming in the back seat and people are honking so I lean in really close and whisper, “I’m going to act like I’m walking over to get my insurance card from my glove compartment, but I’m really going to get my gun and shoot you in the fucking head. So, if you value your life and the lives of your children, I suggest you run for it.”
I can tell she can’t quite believe this but my iron cold stare is starting to convince her so I walk back to my car and say loudly, “OK, let me just get my insurance out of the glove box,” when she decides I’m not joking. I look over and she’s got this expression of pure terror as she jumps in the car, puts it in drive and pulls around me, tires squealing and runs right into a car in on-coming traffic, airbags go off and everything. Priceless.
So I close the door and some bystanders run up to her car to see if everything’s OK and she gets out, blood running down her face from her broken nose and she can’t stop screaming. She pulls her kids out of the backseat and starts running up the hill.
The onlookers give me a “what the hell?” kind of look and I give them a “beats the shit out of me” one in response and we all stand around and wait for the cops. I explain to them and the police officers that I just wanted to do everything by the book and was walking over to my car to get my insurance card when this lady flipped out and tried to drive off. Several eye-witnesses backed up my side of the story, so even though the lady insisted I had threatened her, nobody had come forward and corroborated this. Not to mention, the cops search my car and the surrounding area and find no evidence of any gun, so I’m off the hook.
The 5-0 apologize to me, take my name and number, send me on my way and as I’m driving off, I look in the rearview and she’s screaming and yelling as they rip her kid out of her arms and throw her in the backseat of the squad car.
So I last about three seconds before I lose it and start laughing my ass off! Oh man, that was some funny shit! The irony of this whole situation is, I left the accident in such a good mood, that if it had happened again, I wouldn’t have been such a dick in the first place.
Anyway, a couple days pass and I get this knock on the door. This weasely-looking guy is standing there, holding his hat in his hands like people do in old time movies. He looks nervous as shit so I look over and make sure my Louisville Slugger is right by the door. It is.
“Chad Robuckle?” he asks.
“Who wants to know?” I reply.
He goes and explains that his name is Terry Bradshaw, when I say, “Like the football guy?” he gives me this blank stare and I know I’m dealing with a real winner. Anyway, he tells me he witnessed the accident and he knows I really did threaten to shoot that woman. Well at this point, I’m inching towards the bat and trying to remember how many corpse-size garbage bags I’ve got saved up under the sink. I figure he’s looking for money or whatever, but he actually has something else in mind.
“Man, I couldn’t believe that shit, it was great. You stayed so cool and totally fucked her shit up, that’s some next level shit and I’m down with that,” he says, never quite looking me in the eye.
Normally, I would kill someone just for making any sort of reference to Men In Black, but I’m also a sucker for flattery, so I released my grip on the bat and let him go on.
“Anyway, I don’t know who you’re with, CIA, FBI, KGB, whatever, but if you need any help, just let me know.”
Now let me pause here and tell you that I am a big fan of Mr. Miyagi. Not Pat Morita. Not the movie itself, just that character. I’m not into the kind of karate where you defend yourself as a last resort and you never use it to get money out of people, but still, there was just something about the way he bossed that greasy little wop around that tickled my fancy. So here I saw my chance to be my own Mr. Miyagi and I jumped at it.
“Well, Terry, you’re in luck. My last intern just quit and you look like you’re cut from good stock, so why don’t you go down to the 7-11 over there and get me a twelve pack of beer, for starters,” that seemed very mentor-like to me.
“Uhmm, well I was thinking like I could be your sidekick or partner or something, you know, go on special ops reconnaissance and shit like that?” I figured on this response and I was ready for it.
“Terry,” I began, closing the door behind me as I stepped outside in my underwear, “how many years of military experience do you have? Is it 12? Because that’s how much I have.”
“Oh, shit, Chad, I’m sorr—”
“Mr. Robuckle.” I cut him off.
“Sorry, right, Mr. Robuckle, anyways, I didn’t mean to question your authority or nothin’, I was just wondering what kind of beer I should get you and also um, I don’t have any cash…” What a stammering idiot.
“Terry, listen, when they would drop us Rangers behind enemy lines and we’d have to sneak into a village and cut every male resident over the age of thirteen years’ throats, rape all the women and then burn that whole place down, do you think we had time to sit around and question the orders of our superior officers? Do you think I would ask Sarge for some money? No, if he needed something, I would take it.”
“No, no, of course not, I’m sorry, sir,” he was practically crying. And he called me “sir!” This was great!
“Apology accepted. Now go. Get!” He ran as fast as his gimpy legs could take him. I guess he had a limp or something, probably from someone beating his ass when he was a kid. He looked like that type. “Heineken, Terry, no cheap shit!”
I went back inside, pretty pleased with myself. I began to fantasize about all the future “missions” I could send Terry Bradshaw on. Things were working out pretty well for ol’ Chad Robuckle, but not for long. This always happens to me. I live my life the best I can, I try to be a good person and how do I get rewarded? By a swift kick in the balls from J.C. or Buddha or fate or whoever the hell is running things up there.
My chance to be Mr. Miyagi went down the toilet when that stupid shithead literally ran right into two of Los Angeles’ finest as they were entering the same store he was fleeing from.
The cops drag Terry back to my place in handcuffs, he’d clearly been crying. I tell them I’ve never seen that sorry piece of shit in my life and he starts spouting off something about the accident and the CIA and a secret black ops Delta Ranger force or some crap like that. I just deny everything and they cart his ass off.
So not only does he fail me, he rats me out like a little pussy too. Why am I constantly made to suffer these indignities at the hands of the assholes of the world? If I did something to deserve it, I can’t think of what it is, for the life of me.
What a prick. I hope he’s sharing a cell with that uppity bitch from the other day.