Women Drivers...There ought to be a law.

With apologies in advance to the numerous responsible conservative (and one liberal) women who read this blog. I don't mean to tar you with this brush. Now that being said...

So there I am, minding my own business, not bothering anyone, just driving along all nice and law-abidingly on a two-lane highway, when suddenly a big raised-up Dodge pick-up truck pulls out from a side street on the right, directly into my lane of travel, trying to cut across my lane to turn left in front of me.
Collision: Unavoidable.
Damage: significant,(but alas, mostly to my vehicle)
Fault: Driver of the pick-up truck, who had--and disregarded--a stop sign.

I exit my vehicle, which is now non-driveable due to major damage to the right front quarter and tire. The Dodge has some bumper damage, but it's cosmetic at worst. The Dodge has oversized tires, custom (read: obnoxiously loud) exhaust, and all sorts of stupid stickers on the back window that really only amuse the low-brow types.
The driver of said pick-up truck is, not surprisingly, an overweight woman with a big mouth who alternates between crying "Why does this always happen to me?" and "Oh my God...my boyfriend is going to kill me!" (Granted, my reply: "Somebody ought to", probably didn't help the situation, but I didn't care and still don't.)
I tell her to pull into the nearby parking lot just past the intersection. She wails: "Not until I call my boyfriend!"
I tell her that I'm calling the police and remind her that she is now blocking an entire intersection. She just demands to know why I hit her.
"Hello?! Highway!" (I gesture to the road I was on.) "Side street!" (I point to the road she was on. "Stop sign!" (I point to the big red six-sided piece of metal that she ignored.) I'm the one that had the damned right of way here, but she's too far gone to grasp it.

We both pull into the parking lot as I call the police. Once off the phone, I get out, survey my vehicle's damage, then proceed over to check out hers. This sets her to screaming again. "Get away from my truck!" I ignore her and start taking pictures. Now she's screaming: "You can't photograph my truck! Get away from me right now or I'll have you charged with harassment." I just do what I need to do, marveling at the fact that somewhere out there, there's a guy who thinks that this woman is worth putting up with. Of course when he shows up a few minutes later, with his scruffy six-inch-long beard, his overflowing gut, and a t-shirt with an off-color comment intended to be humorous on it, I understand perfectly. There two are a match made in...well made in someplace stupid.

Fortunately the police are already there and he seems to know better than to come over and say word one to me. Maybe he's not as dumb as he looks. Even more fortunately, he has insurance. The police officer, someone I know, does me a good turn and bends the rules by giving me the guy's insurance information instead of making me wait a week and pay $20.00 for a copy of the accident report, so at least I have the claim process started tonight.

My SUV. I love my SUV. It just went over 200,000 miles this week, there wasn't a damned thing mechanically wrong with it, and I'd planned to get a lot more use out of it. Sigh...