Dear sub human scum,
There I was parked up, minding my own business quietly enjoying a weekend away with the family. I say enjoying, the littlest one was getting on my nerves a little bit with the constant cat impressions, but apart from that things were going quite well.
But then you decided your life in Milton Keynes needed some excitement. I can relate to that, those roundabouts can get pretty tedious.
But there was a ski slope you could have thrown yourself down, breaking your neck in the process and putting the rest of humanity out of its misery.
That would have been nice.
Or they were turning on the Christmas lights – you could have gone and watched that, stuck your finger in one of the sockets and when Santa illuminated the garden city, he could have stopped your heart at the same time and upset absolutely no one in the process.
But no, your tiny, minuscule dinosaur brain decided instead you’d fill your miserable little Saturday night by scratching my door with your key.
I know you’re jealous.
I mean, come on, who wouldn’t be? I’m a nice, shiny 64-plate Mazda 6 with a big boot and my whole life ahead of me.
You’re a smelly, tramp of a man with a male member that even you sometimes mistake for your belly button.
But I shouldn’t have been surprised about your wanton vandalism should I? It was in your breeding wasn’t it? That’s what happens when your mother is your auntie’s sister’s grandmother and your father is really your uncle who was your brother’s dog.
You shouldn’t be hard to find by plod, if they actually cared about this sort of thing. I could smell your halitosis from three car parking spaces away.
That, and the fact you’ve got one leg shorter than the other and your facial features make an eel look like a super model, should mean you’re pretty recognisable.
I have some good news for mankind, though.
Word in the car park is you’re firing blanks and even if you did manage to attract a mate – which, frankly, is near-on impossible with that baboon’s backside of facial features – you wouldn’t be able to impregnate her anyway.
Your impotence, and the fact you’ve got a button mushroom down your trousers, would mean baby-making was something you’ll only ever get to experience on TV.
You’ve probably forgotten that us cars are actually quite easily repaired. Scratches can be filled, paint reapplied. Yes, it’s a pain, but hey, at least I’m not going back to a microwave meal for one and pubic crabs for company.
If only it was as easy to fix your face, eh? You either need a car crash to improve that mug (and believe me, I’m working HARD on that) or a plastic surgeon who’s happy to do some pro-bono work because, let’s face it, he’s not going to take your herpes as payment is he?
Right, better go, I need to up my campaign for castration as suitable punishment for yobs like you that decide keying a car is a ‘right laugh’. That way we know your mutant, primate rectum faced, swamp smelling, chipolata penised gene pool isn’t spread any further.
Love (and by love I obviously mean hate and want to squirt my screen wash fluid into your naked eyes),
One slightly damaged Mazda 6 Tourer