The Intelligence Estimate

I'm sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I didn't realize it was a one-way street. Ignorance of the traffic laws is no excuse; I only offer that in way of explanation. Clearly you had been having a bad day and/or have an explosive rage disorder that manifests itself in embarrassing displays of self-righteous anger the likes of which the world has rarely seen. And I know that my gross contradiction of the posted right-of-way was disconcerting at best and cause for your head to detach itself from the howling, flailing mass of indignation that your body had become at worst.

I know that I was in the wrong. I admit that, and I apologize. Clearly the pain you felt from my actions was tantamount to me extracting your spleen from your body by way of your nostrils using nothing more than a coat hanger and some soothing words as anesthetic. I apologize. I'm sorry. And in the spirit of the season I want to say that I forgive you for yelling at me in a manner not often seen this side of boot camp.

And because I forgive you, I will refrain from calling you a self-absorbed, self-loathing rage machine hell-bent on reducing others to quivering lumps of doubt and fear in an attempt to compensate for her obvious shortcomings as a human being. That's right, I will not call you the myriad colorful names that flew through my mind as you corrected my horrendous driving faux pas. I will not hurl any of those epitaphs because I can see that you have many problems of your own to work out. Best of luck in your future driving endeavors. May our paths never cross again, you hideous, loathsome creature of the deep.

Yours in Peace,
Christopher Alan Gummert, Humanitarian at Large