My Friend's Brush with Death

Getting hit by a car isn't that bad, really. 

Who the fuck crosses the road without looking both ways? Isn't that like the first thing we learn on this Earth as soon as we start walking outside the safety of your home?  Your parents say, "Look both ways before crossing the road!"  It's ingrained into your very being.  If you're retarded, like my buddy, you just say "You gotta time it just right..." and just go.  Now this would work out just fine if you're messing around in a cul-de-sac or down a residential, dead-end street where the only traffic are 97 year old women returning from the pharmacy, soccer moms in minivans, and sexual predators looking for some fresh meat.  When it's a major, state highway...not so much. 

In this particular instance, the road in question happened to be a major, state highway, in the grand Commonwealth of Massachusetts, (where most people, not me though, are terrible drivers) and it was following a high school football game where about 94% of the drivers on the road were completely shitfaced or high.  Yeah, good idea dip shit, just fly your ass across the road without looking, you'll be fine.

To make the story as brief as possible, my buddy was looking to his left, where, admittedly, most of the traffic WAS coming from, and exclaimed, "You gotta time it just right!"  Also, admittedly, he DID time it just right, deftly maneuvering through the eastbound traffic.  He didn't look to his right, a BMW driven by a horrified young woman, screeched and slowed down before clipping my genius friend.  If he had started his almost fateful journey across the road a split second later than he did, he'd have been smashed into flush and thrown like a fucking beanbag a half mile down the street, surely ending his life.  In that situation, a friend could only hope that his death was quick and painless, and grateful that his DNA was never passed on to any offspring. As it turned out, he ran when he did, and just caught the driver's side mirror, got spun around in the air, and landed mostly on his feet as the driver, along with me and my brother, who logically stayed on the side of the road, stared and screamed in horror.  I told him that if he was killed I would have made sure that "You gotta time it just right!" was inscribed on his tombstone.

Anyways, I'm sorry future generations, for possibly having to deal with the genealogy of my buddy, who is the only person I know to cross a highway, get hit by a car going 40 miles per hour, and live to get his balls constantly busted by the whole ordeal.  Thanks fuck-face. 

The main reason I put this up here is because my friend is incapable of telling this story himself.