I am now part of the elite "Smart Nation".
I may travel safely at highway speeds, can fit two fifty litre kegs and two twelve pack suitcases of Steam Whistle Pilsner in the rear area, and love to drive it.
I feel extremely safe cocooned amidst four airbags and an F-1 racing-type tubular steel body.
Having said that, I will no doubt say it again and again and again over the course of my relationship with Bam-Bam, my beloved Smart Cabriolet.
I will, however, caution folks who are skeptical of Bam-Bam's ability to protect me (either by way of his several special braking systems and tubular steel, or by rolling over those who mock and defy us like a turbo-charged dwarf elephant). The last man who defamed Bam-Bam designed his own moronic fate.
Near the Summerhill LCBO Bam-Bam and I were placidly waiting for the light to change. A voice from above us spat ill-informed remark after ill-informed remark until I finally had to put the roof down, look way up, and answer his malevolent stupidity with a firm rebuke.
A- (calling from the seat of his large flatbed towtruck)"I wouldn't want to get in an accident with that!! No sir!"
B- "Do you know what safety systems I have to protect me?"
A- "I hope it's a coffin, because you're going to need it if you get hit in that."
B- "Have you ever seen race cars get in accidents? You know that little steel cage that the drivers step out of and wave to the crowd? That's basically what this car is."
A- "I still wouldn't want to get in an accident with that. I need to be nice and high; that's where I'm safe."
It was at this point the light turned green, and I began to roll away. I was just going to call back something to the effect that he would likely never get into an accident driving a Smart, seeing as he would likely never drive a Smart, therefore removing most of the risk of getting into an accident with one. . .when he got in an accident.
Seeing me move made him assume that he could move, which he did--right into the back of the car in front of him. Being so high off the road, I suppose he didn't see the four door sedan his huge towtruck kissed gently.
I didn't have time to chime out "I wouldn't want to get in an accident because I wasn't paying attention, Monkey-Fucker!", which was too bad. It just goes to show that, in a city like Toronto, poetic justice is always stalking you, waiting to punctuate your each and every move with a humbling irony. I love it!
Where I'm from, humbling irony was only ever presented for the amusement of lowing cattle in an ajacent field, making it much easier for one's character to weather.
This man's great misfortune is that he may tow his mistake back to his place of work for his co-workers to enjoy (all at his expense). Talk about hoisting one's own petard! Indeed!
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