Honest Abe's and Michael Jackson's

Today I decided to go to a cheap Chinese buffet with my sister and grab a bite to eat. It was one of those rare rainy days—you know, those days when you want to eat a lot of everything, but you don’t have a whole lot of cash in your pockets.

I was in the parking lot looking for a parking space when my neck suddenly cricked towards the right in a funny position. Now, at this point, I’m like “What the fuck just happened?” After straightening out my neck to twist it towards the left, I realize that a crappy 2005 Pontiac had hit my crappier 2007 Honda Civic on the side. Not only that, but the car began to slowly inch away from the scene of the crime. I sat in the car for a moment or two and then rushed out, planning to yell, “Who the hell do you think you are?! Don’t even think about getting away, asshole!” I’m not usually one to cuss—but I was super pissed off that the guy was planning to make a run for it. I knocked on his car window as I got pummeled by the rain, but I stopped beating the window with my fists when I saw the guilty individual inside the car. It was this pathetic, lonely looking old geezer with a beard, glasses, and complete in 17th century attire. He looked kind of like an aged version of Abe Lincoln, and my heart melted instantly at the sorry sight. After meeting the famous, dead celebrity, I quelled my anger and waited for a sincere “I’m sorry” or a simple “Are you okay?” from Honest ‘Ole Abe. “Hi, I think you hit my car?” The man replied and jeered with pointed eyes: “I hit your car? I didn’t feel a thing.”

The admiration I had once felt for our “honest,” former president dissipated. At that time it seemed fitting that Abe was assassinated because he must have been an asinine ass just like his long lost clone. As I stood there with my hand on his car window, he opened the door in my face, scoffed at the Asian witnesses, and walked out of the car. He walked towards my car, looked at the damage, and said, “Hm…it looks like you can just buff it off.” I looked at my severely scratched car and gawked at the guy’s bearded face. Almost immediately I noticed his ugly pitted face, his scrawny limbs, and that evil glare in his dead eyes. With his limp, oily gray hair and beard, he looked like a strange mixture of an Amish man, a creepy pedophile, and an undiscovered species of vermin rolled into one. As I imagined horrible events involving him and Michael Jackson, I gaped and then found the effort to mutter, “Look at your car. It’s obvious you hit mine.” He peered at the damage on his car and said nonchalantly, “Oh, that was there all along.”

What the fuck. I like old people, but this man wasn’t a senior—he was more senile than anything else. In the car, my sister had about the same look of disbelief as I had on mine. When I said I would file a police report, he said that I didn’t know what I was talking about. I asked for his policy number and driver’s license and wrote down the information. As I proceeded to call my mom, he grunted repeatedly, “Can you hurry up?” and laughed snidely at my apparent nervousness while I hastily wrote down the information on the back of a mapquest map. Moments later, he snatched back his information and sped away, almost hitting another innocent car in the process. Meanwhile, rain poured down on my head, and I mulled over when I could eat my Chinese food and the condition of man’s humanity.