Don't truck with me, buddy.

H'ok. So I'm hanging out in my car at the BP station across from Lambert International Airport in St. Louis. The little bastard made a wretched beeping noise, so I decide to find out what it wanted. After asking verbally and being rebuffed I decided that a more digital approach was in order. So I used my digit to hit the "what the hell do you want button" and it informed me I had a few voice messages. Fine. I begin to listen to them when all of a sudden my world is, quite literally, rocked.

Looking back I can see what the source of this world rock-ation quite clearly. And it's a Penske truck, for all intents and purposes moshing with mine. Angered (because I was only a few seconds into my first message... and I got hit by a truck) I jumped out of my mom's van to 1.) assess the damage and 2.) give the idiot who hit me while I was parked a piece of my mind and all of the bill for repairs.

However he didn't seem interested in my plight. My first hint was that the bastard just kept driving. And when he got out of his truck, he made for the gas station. Whatever he was buying, I'm sure it wasn't a product for his teeth. All eight of them by my count. Really they should be considered half of eight teeth. They were pretty worn down and where they weren't yellow they were a plaque-ish shade of brown, but that's neither here nor there.

"Hey buddy, can I talk to you for a second?" I said as I approached, he doggedly refusing to look in my direction at all.

"About what?" he said with a sneer and a hostility that screamed 'I know exactly what.'

"The weather. And if we have time, you hitting my car." I said with a tone that said 'Don't screw with me; I'm smarter than you.'

"Where?"

"Come." When we reached my car I point emphatically at the newly blackened and scraped rear bumper and the dislodged sensor. "Pretty much in this reigon here." (Internal monologue "not so much here, or here, but riiight here").

"I didn't feel anything."

"Well I did." So had my witness. Or saw at least. Point - Scott.

"Well I don't know what you expect me to do about it."

("You could just pay for the damages with that bundle you must save on dental hygene.") This, however, I only thought. I would've said it, but having already been sarcastic in response to his dickish faux-ignorance I didn't want things to get out of hand.

"I think the best course of action would be to trade insurance information."

"I don't have insurance."

"So you're uninsured." (Great.)

"No, I have insurance."

At this I had to blink twice before proceeding. Some people count to ten. I animatedly blink, as though what you said was impossible to comprehend, letting you simmer in the ridiculousness ofthe statement. Although this guy smelled as though he'd already been making his own gravy for quite a while, so the tactic had no immeadiate effect.

I soon learned several things; that driving was, inexplicably, his career; that the Penske truck he was driving around the corner of the gas station when he clipped me was a rental from his company; and that he had no intention of being helpful at all. It was shortly after this point that he drove away. After refusing to provide even the most basic of contact information. He gave a name, but wouldn't verify it with I.D. He gave a company name, but wouldn't give me a card. And a phone number to a number that might be disconnected. Then he drove away, amid my protests. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to take camera-phone pictures. Of everything. Of him even. The dick.

So far everything about this man is a dead-end. I doubt insurance will be able to squeeze anything out of him or his fly-by-night company. But I can have my fun. If anyone is bored the individual in question is:

Nick Palazzolo

It is only as a public service that I announce to the world that he is officially a dick.

- Scott