Some Terrible Person Stole My Beloved Jeep Cherokee
I don't know who it was (obvs), but I'd like to think it was the same guys from before, if only because then at least they got the tape that I made for them. Even I cannot deny it is very excellent to imagine them driving around in my car, laughing, listening to the tape that I made for them in hopes that they'd not do exactly what they did. The only thing more excellent to imagine is a gigantic eagle swooping down and plucking their lungs from their chests at some point in the very near future.
After I realized what had happened, I cursed. Then I got SUPER mad. Then I got SUPER sad. Then I got SUPER DUPER mad. I felt like Bun B at the beginning of Three 6 Mafia's "Sippin' On Some Sizzurp." I felt like the way the guy from Die Antwoord looks all the time.
I called the police and insurance company, both of which said there was little to be done other than sit and wait (despite being invaluable to me, The Bomber was worth less than a handful of American dollars). I got in my wife's car and drove around and looked for it. In hindsight, that was no more effective than the time I tried to use brain power to make Derek Fisher break both of his legs after he hit the AWFUL 0.4 Jumper against the San Antonio Spurs in the 2004 Playoffs. But it was all I could think to do.
The very last time I drove The Bomber was to take my sons to Blockbuster so they could pick the movie for Movie Night, a family tradition we've had for more nearly two years now. (On the way over, we listened to a chopped and screwed version of Kendrick Lamar's good kid, m.A.A.d. city.) And I suppose if the car had to be taken, I'm glad that that was the last thing I used it for.
But, man. fuckFuckFUCK.
The world is a dirty place.