Keyed!

Keyed!

I kept forgetting to mention this, but when I picked up Betty from daycare last week, I noticed this trio of gangbangers toting a 12-pack of Heineken walking down the middle of the street. They gave me the stink eye, probably because I was wearing a polo shirt and baseball cap and they didn't noticed the irony and instead just mistook me for a garden variety yuppie, but I shrugged it off and went inside. Three minutes later i had collected the beagle and as I went to open my door I realized I now had a bunch of nice, fresh gouges along the drivers' side of my car. I had just been keyed! And the fuckers obviously ran because they were nowhere to be found.

Which is probably just as well. Listen, I'm a pragmatic fellow. When I'm walking down the street at night, and there's a bunch of dude on a street corner I'm approaching, I'll cross the street. When some shady dude engages me in conversation I tense up, avoid anything that could even be interpreted as inflammatory, and keep one fist at the ready, just in case. I don't seek out trouble; in fact I try to avoid any sort of street confrontation. This keying incident, however, is the one time I probably would have gotten my ass kicked, because had the perpetrators been anywhere within my eyeline, I would have gone for the trio's collective throat without even blinking.