A few weeks ago, on a dark winter’s morn, I drove to work on Highway 50, behind a humongous truck. Shortly before I exited the freeway I heard a loud CRACK. A pebble, bullet, an armed WMD hit my windshield. When I parked I stared in horrified fascination at a round, pierced hole, located on the driver’s side, only an inch or two above the wipers.
Always hated trucks; Tyrannosaurus-sized behemoths, driven by rude bastards that ignoring the fact that I own the freeways, believe that they own the freeways. Arrogant bastards! Ought not be allowed on freeways. I don’t care that they carry the merchandise and thus are essential for me to live my life in a manner that I am accustomed to; that being a princess in exile.
Skip to tonight. I picked up my car and headed home. I noticed something weird – someone had drawn a foot-long, white chalk line across the bottom of my windshield. The chalk line was actually an enlongated crack, which on this frigid winter evening was traveling from its source; the bullet hole in my windshield. Gasp!
I was sick with annoyance. I hadn’t done anything to deserve that damned windshield hole in the first place, but here it was ruining my car's perfection. Why are trucks allowed to cruise freeways spewing boulders that crack the windshields of sweet innocents such as myself?
I was fuming as I drove along. Then, I chanced to look down again and GASP! The crack had grown, another 8 or 9 inches! A frost demon had possessed my car and before my very eyes was having a go at cracking my poor windshield!
I was so upset, I left the car for an errand, and when I returned 45 minutes later, the crack had transverse another foot, ending in a downward curve under the windshield wiper on the passenger side.
My beautiful, Mohave Mist copper brown Honda CRV now looks like a decrepit old SUV. Will get windshield replaced in January, after which I will never, ever allow a $#@%& truck within a half mile of my wee ikle Honda.