Whew. I'm back. After the last cross, I thought I had lost the ability to find humor in other's pain.
What a said dark day that would have been.
Turns out I'm fine and normal. Sondra Cunningham's death was just
the antidote I needed. On 10/25/2008 she was riding shot gun in a street race and the jockey of the horse she bet on was a little tipsy (he later blew a .183).
Cunningham and her driver were tearing ass down the road in a Dodge Neon when he lost control of his high performance compact sedan and crashed into
a utility pole.
Ok, here's the part where I know I am ok and not going soft.
Then just like Ralph Nader predicted, the car catches fire. As his bad-ass,
hot-rod, cherried-out, envy-of-everyone muscle car is engulfed in flames, the driver
gets pulled from the burning Dodge Neon to safety by some misguided hero. End scene. Exit hero.
Either the dumb samaritan thought the car was so fucked up that it was impossible a person was in the passenger side or he didn't even think to look. Whatever
the case, the misguided saint called it a day after saving the shitty driver. So, instead of living out the rest of his life as a hero for risking his life to save someone from
burning wreckage, the guy who pulled the driver out of the car now has to live with the fact that he saved the life of a piece of shit drunk driver (who would be
convicted of Involuntary manslaughter) while leaving his passenger to die in a burning car. Oh, the cruel, cruel, delicious...
What's the opposite of irony?
Oh, the cruel, cruel, delicious aptness of it all.