Blood

It is with more joy than I can contain that I report there are blood stains on my car's passenger door and passenger seat today. Not as much blood as I'd like, but smile bringing blood stains nonetheless.

Some dog-shit eating, squirrel-ass sucking, W. Bush-brain sized, small dicked, crack smoking virus broke into my car (and several others in my parking garage) last night -- smashed the passenger window out, emptied the glove box onto the floor and left the four dollars or so of coins in the change box (which was tossed onto the floor). Happily, Mazda tempered glass doesn't exactly break into relatively safe cubes and the French kisser of dung beetles who broke my car must have cut himself. I can't express my sadness at what apparently was the avoidance of a major arterial breach injury.

Greater anger might erupt if I let myself think at all about the deductible system of the insurance industry, but I'll steer clear of that rant for my positive mental health's sake. Suffice it to say my intended Saturday morning of Christmas shopping turned into a $300 trip to an auto glass store.

Because it’s the holiday seasion, I’m thinking positively: just maybe a bit of dirty glass is stuck under the skin of the toilet-rim stain, smegma-mold excuse for a human who spent last night smashing car windows, and the wound will fester and blood poisoning will follow.

Okay, NOW, I'm off to gift buy.