Circuit City, feel free to die in a fire

I needed a simple point-and-shoot that takes decent video. I found a Nikon Coolpix at Circuit City for $100. They didn't have any stocked, so the salesman told me I could get the display camera for a discounted price ($70). I looked it over and it was in good shape, so I said sure. Salesman told me he'd go get the box with all my accessories and I could be on my merry way.

I get home last night and realize that the USB cable isn't included in the box.

Just now, I called to tell them and they informed me that their open-box policy is to discount the display items because you might not get all the accessories with them. First time that notion ever hit my ears. I told the CSR that I was told by the salesman that all the accessories were in the box. She said sorry, but was I sure it was even supposed to come with a USB cable? Because a lot of times cameras don't come with USB cables (bullshit). Yes, lady, it was supposed to have a USB cable, because I can't telekenetically get the fucking pictures onto my fucking computer. She cheerfully told me I could come buy a USB cable, because they couldn't rip into another camera box and get me a cable. I asked her why, if they sold cables, they couldn't send me one of those ... for free ... since I'd already bought a camera and not been given all the parts. She said she wasn't sure they could do that, and I asked to speak to a manager.

Some other woman gets on the line with a gruff "HELLO?" and I ask, "Is this a manager?" She's all, "No, ma'am, our open-box policy blah blah bullshitcakes." I honestly don't feel like fighting with these fucking people about a godforsaken cord so I guess I'm just going to return the damn camera — which I was actually really starting to like — and think bad thoughts about Circuit City as I walk over to Best Buy. Which will probably screw me over in new and exciting ways.

About my scarred bumper

So, I super-sleuthed and figured out how red paint got on my bumper.

One of the four other people who live in my part of the building and use the outside door that is right next to my assigned parking space must have opened the door one day this week and walloped the everloving shit out of my car. Aaaaand not bothered to leave a note. On the car or on my door.

It's either the two people who live below me — one of whom is the property manager — or the two people who live across the hall. No one else is in the fourth apartment.

Look, I can understand, with the wind we've had lately, the door getting away from you and whacking whatever car happens to be parked next to it (which will always be mine, since that's my ASSIGNED spot), but leave a fucking note. Call me. Something. Don't just pretend it didn't happen, you know? He/she would have had to hit the car hard to leave that kind of paint deposit. Hard enough for him/her to have at least a split second of "Hmmm, what should I do?" banter in his/her head.

Anyway, mystery solved. I'm going to leave a passive-aggressive note on the door and possibly wrap the front right part of my bumper in bubble wrap every time I park.

To the jackbag who hit my car and didn't even leave a note

I hope you and your sandwich-stealing friend get to share the cheap seats in Hell, you spineless fucktard.

I'm eyeing every vaguely red/maroon car in this town, looking for a similar pattern on the fender.

God, people suck so fucking much. Not even 2,000 miles on my damn car and already some idiot has got me queued up to have body work done. I could spit acid into the eyes of a thousand children right now.