A Morbid Topic

I hate these a-holes.

I've always believed that I would die at the hands of a vehicle. Maybe I crash, maybe some moron crashes into me, either way, the ending will not be good. Or, even worse, and those of you who know me, saw this one coming: I am murdered by some piece of junk some redneck has loaded into the back of his Jed Clampett truck and secured with a shoestring. The shoestring snaps and his scrap-metal flies through my windshield and rips my head off. Immediate death.

And now you see why I hate to drive.

The death car.

Today, I thought I was going to die at the hands of a vehicle. It wasn't being driven by anyone. It was on the steps going down to my bathroom. Yes, this pointy Matchbox Land Rover was sitting on the second step of five just waiting to destroy me. My children must've set this death trap. Here I go, running down the stairs (which is never a good idea), barefoot (also not a good idea), and feel the pierce of doom. I scream a profanity (sorry, children, but you brought it on yourselves) and hold on to the railing for dear life. Luckily, by the grace of God (because we all know I have no grace), I was able to recover and not bust my rump or head. I live! I live!