I remember the first time I saw a sweet DC kiss. Last summer, a moving truck took a too-tight turn and ruined an Ohioan’s vacation. Then Brownpau saw a serious DC parking lot kiss, offender unknown. And who could forget the Metrobus DC kiss that sent passengers to the emergency room?
Each time, I felt sorry for the recipient and wondered if the kisser got away with their transgression. Saturday morning, I found the answer the hard way.
In mid-post about Dousing IMF Protestations, I get a call from my neighbour: “Did you hear that crunch? Sounds like someone just hit your Mom’s truck.”
That’s not the phrase you want to hear when your Mom is in Hawaii, entrusting you with her pickup after saying “Now don’t you wreck it. I think of your father every time I drive it.”
Sprinting outside, I found that my new neighbour, in her haste to move in, gave me a taste of DC parking problems, a DC kiss of my very own.
The neighbour, apologetic to a fault, was nice enough, and the fender, while bent past salvage, doesn’t hinder driving and can be replaced easy like, did put a bummer on my weekend.
While it might sound fun, a DC kiss ain’t – for either party.
This post appeared in its original form at DC Metblogs
