The only time I have ever broken a real law was the time I hit a rental car with a golf cart. Let me explain. I’m eight years old, at my Late Grandma Evelyn’s 90th birthday party. My uncle, Bob Greene, had been driving around in his golf cart, for no particular reason. A cousin of mine, I forget his name so I’m going to call him Steve, knew how to drive a golf cart. Bob let Steve drive the cart for a while, and after about 20 minutes, I jumped in and ride around. Steve saw that I liked going around in it, so he asked me, “You want to learn to drive?” Obviously I said yes. After about half-an-hour, he tested me. He told me to go around the property. Now, that area is a little bit treacherous, with a couple of sharp rocks, and ramps and crap. So I’m about 3/4of the way done, so I think I’m all good. All of a sudden, I’m falling. It turns out, I had made a wrong turn, and fallen into a ditch. Everything turned slow-motion. I saw the ground approach. I was airborne. But then I realized that I was only a foot above the ground, and I was fine. Should’ve been my sign to stop that day but, whatever. About 20 minutes later, I’m driving around, and I see my Grandparents pulling into the driveway. Now, keep in mind that the brake is almost impossible for me to even see, much less reach and press. I wave at them, and BAM. I look forward to see that I put a big ol’ dent into the rear bumper of the rental. About 15 people saw it, and they all started laughing. Steve was nowhere to be seen, but Bob was right there, asking if I was OK, and “What happened?” I was fine, a little shell-shocked, but fine. I have not been allowed to drive a golf cart since.
(Certain parts of this story have been exaggerated to create a better story.)
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