I'll Drink To That...Or Not...

If bad luck was a marketable skill, I'd be Tony fuckin' Robbins.

Speaking, preaching, inspiring, gloating, and otherwise spouting off with a case of verbal diarrhea on how skilled, talented, and credible I was on the topic.

Most people list tons and tons and tonsssssss of credentials.
I get it.
The more the better.
But this...this case...only needs one example to illustrate my long time affair with shitty luck:

Welcome to the first night of court mandated DUI classes for driving under the influence.
(Yes, I got busted with a .15 behind the wheel...but not the point of the story...)

No car.
No license.
No insurance.
No business being on the road, behind the wheel, or alone driving a Chevy Suburban.
Basically, a ticking time bomb.
Menace to society.
Trouble on wheels.

My father was too lazy to drive me.
My grandparents can drive in the dark.
And everyone else is otherwise occupied.
But I NEED to attend that class.
So Pops tosses me the keys to his #1 love in life...no, not his wife you sick bastards...his truck.
I gladly accept.
Driving Dad's sweet SUV, blasting my music, and tasting the freedom which has been no more than a lingering memory to me is far too good to pass up!

Get to school alive.
Check.
No accidents.
Check.
No police incidents.
Check.

Go to class.
Check.
Sit through the horrendously boring 3 hour REQUIRED program.
Check.
Pacify the court.
Check.
Handle your "adult" responsibilities.
Check. Check. Check.

9:45 quickly rolls around and I can't get out of that class long enough.
I'm not a drunk.
I'm just a moronic driver who likes 3 shots of vodka before she turns over an automobile engine.
These people are nuts.
Crazy, in fact.
And of course I'm better than all of them.

Beeline to the parking lot.
Hop in the car.
Check all mirrors.
Clear.
Reverse.
BOOM!
See magical Honda suddenly appear behind the rear bumper.
Curse self every so vehemently before taking a deep breath and exiting the car.
No visible damage.
Chick driving Houdini's magically appearing Honda freaks.

"Oh my gosh! This is my parents car!"
I recognize said whiny bitch from my class.
"Double DUI offender, 18 month sentence to these classes, and my parents always cover for me."
Great.
I rammed the Marcia Brady of DUI school with my Dad's stupid "I need a trailer hitch because I'm a man, not because I have anything to tow" rear 6 added inches.

Me: Let's just call the cops and get a police report.
Me thinking: YOU DUMB BITCH! YOU'RE DRIVING ILLEGALLY!!!!

Marcia Brady: No, that's cool. Let's just exchange numbers just in case.

Me: Okay. Let's exchange license numbers, too.
Me thinking: YOU FUCKTARD! YOU DON"T HAVE A LICENSE!!!!

Marcia Brady: No, that's not necessary. It doesn't look like there's damage, but we should handle it off the record, just in case.

Me thinking: This bitch doesn't have a license, either.
Me: Good call!

Information is exchanged.
The crowd that has gathered, no doubt thinking, "thank GOD that wasn't my stupid ass" has cleared, and I climb my heavily beating hearted chest back into the truck.

Drive home is intense.
Telling Pops is hard.
He laughs.
No damage to his truck.
I call my Mom.
She laughs.
"Only you..." she mutters somewhere in the conversation.

Moral of the story:

If you're going to hit someone while you don't have a license, make sure they don't have one either.

And don't drive to DUI classes if you're not driving legally.

The End.