Open Letter to the £@%”$ Who Hit My Car

And then ran off like a scared wet chicken.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I hope you get to read this letter and it finds you in the greatest of health, because when I find you, your slow, torturous descent into the depths of physical and mental suffering at my hands will be all the more dramatic.

By scoogling my car in the parking, and leaving the scene and the office area without so much as an unsigned note apologizing for your apparent and disgusting cowardice, you have accomplished what years of reading and drafting all these reports, drinking out of smoky and dreary pubs, and kissing my bosses’ asses had yet to succeed at: My last flicker of faith in the inherent goodness of personkind (not mankind, coz you could be a woman for all we know) has been extinguished. Congratulations.

You must be well aware that a man's car is his chariot, his freedom and his initial projection of the self to the world, and, for me, one of the few things aside from my family and this computer that is of any importance to me. You might as well have walked up to me on the street, a total stranger, kicked me square in the crotch and ran.

So, how does one properly return such a noble deed? I have a plan. It would be foolish and far too easy to simply sue your sorry ass or ask you to repair my car then exchange a few smiles and niceties then move on. No, in this case, Lady Justice will be satisfied with nothing less than the slow torturing and battering of your spirit and self esteem.

I shall work on you till you curse all the evil forces that collaborated to bring you into my life. Since you are apparently my colleague as our parking is reserved, I will hunt down your car, look for the corresponding scratch marks or fresh paint and all hell will break loose then. I shall spam your e-mail from my old computer turned schematic server, hack your IP and then slowly disable then crash your computer, all with simple clicks of a mouse. I shall create out of office agents to constantly respond to all e-mails on your behalf, along the lines of:

I will be out of the office for the next 2 weeks for medical reasons. When I return, please refer to me as 'Njeri' instead of 'Njoroge'.

You know the drill. I could even impersonate you and play a few games with that special someone, or sign you up on about a thousand or so newsletters from a cross section of websites.

You will hate your work, or the little bit you’ll get done over the next few weeks, and hate yourself, and dread coming to work everyday because of the small ‘accidents’ you’ll be involved in, starting with the conveniently placed banana peels to sweep you away or the pins (ouch!) or slime on your seat. Your car will receive a new coat of glue and splashed paint, and you'll get constant puctures as a bonus. Damn, come to think of it, I could even get you a free carton trailer with tins and beer bottles to rattle you home late one evening!

The beauty of it is that you will not know why. I will probably forget it after a week, and then someone will mention your name and poof!!! I shall start all over again. Perhaps for good measure, I should look up the civil servants who deemed you fit for Kenyan roads and play a few games with them on the phone and top it up with a few crybaby letters from you as well.

As for your sorry self, please take good care of yourself, as your imminent suffering will be made all the more pleasurable for me if you're the pinnacle of good health when I begin. Indemnifying me is almost too good for you jackass.

Vengefully yours,

StackOfStiffys