Well, I’m busting my buttons with pride (or I would be if I wasn’t currently wearing an open-back hospital gown) because the tire iron that put me in the hospital was wielded by a car thief who stole my Mercedes.
Yes, this is the type of tire iron you’d be proud to tell your friends about after your jaw has been smashed and your face beaten nearly beyond recognition. It did hurt for a few seconds as he pummeled the back of my head with it, and it’s true that I did cry a little as he shattered seven of my ribs, but the sublime German engineering of this little beauty kept the shaft from buckling when he broke my kneecaps and if you look real close you can see the Mercedes logo scar just underneath the skin on my belly. After all, there’s no shame in being beaten within an inch of one’s life by the best damn tire iron money can buy!
Every blow to the ribcage I endured gave me more and more respect and even as I drifted in and out of consciousness and while I made my desperate pleas for mercy, I couldn’t help but notice the distinctive thud of fine German steel. Most of all, though, I was amazed how the patented Mercedes sure-grip handle allowed my assailant to keep a good grip on the tool even though it was now covered in my blood. The way I look at it, if you’re going to lose three or four pints of body fluids, you may as well lose it to the weapon preferred by demolition experts and career criminals throughout the European continent and most of America except certain parts of Los Angeles, Chicago, New York and Detroit.
While it’s true that I may never again be able to walk, at least I’ll eventually be able to hold my head up high (even if it requires a sling) knowing that I will live out the remainder of my life without the humiliation of being crippled by a cut-rate thief. If my memory hasn’t returned in a couple of years, at least I’ll have that Mercedes logo indelibly burned into my gray matter.