Door Ding Damnation

17-car crush

Can anyone hide in secret places so that I cannot see him?” declares the LORD. “Do not I fill heaven and earth?” declares the LORD. (Jeremiah 23:24)

My car is riddled with sin, its metallic skin pocked by the acne of guerrilla selfishness. The dings of dastardly disregard stutter down the length of my defenseless, wounded vehicle. I want to kill somebody.

Suddenly, a blistering vision explodes before me:

I see a great white throne and him who is seated on it. Earth and sky flee from his presence, and there is no place for them. And I see the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books are opened. The dead are judged according to what they had done as recorded in the books. The sea gives up the dead that are in it, and death and Hades give up the dead that is in them, and each person is judged according to what he had done. I hear the horrified cries of the hit and run door dingers and watch as they plummet headlong into the lake of fire where they will writhe in torment forever and ever. The smoke of their punishment rises like sweet incense of vindication.

And then I hear a song rising above the inferno. Triumphant and glorious, it is the Song of the Dented, those who drove their scarred vehicles without recompense, those whose cars, like mine, had borne the mutilations of clandestine depravity.  And as I drive my pockmarked Civic out of the parking lot, I exult and lift my voice to join joyful Munchkin throng:

Ding-damned! They twitch with dread!
Who gets pitched in the the fiery ditch?
Ding-damned! The jerks will burn instead!

On the way home I stop to pick up a bag of marshmallows, parking wherever I damn well please.


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