As we cruised through downtown, Steve repeatedly kept asking me if I was listening to anything he was saying.

“Of course,” I assured him.  “I just can’t believe that you put yourself in this position.  I mean, you really fucked up royally this time, man.”

“I KNOW, I KNOW!!!” he screamed at me.  “What the fuck am I gonna do, man?!  That guy we hit has to be dead!  I just didn’t even see him until he was splayed out on the hood of the fucking car!  Oh god, I’m gonna be sick,” he blurted out, just before vomiting all over the leather upholstery.

I couldn’t keep calm any longer.  “Jesus, man, I just can’t believe you use Geico,” I said.  “I mean, how old are you, nineteen?  Those dents are gonna be fucking expensive to bang out with coverage like that.  And now the interior’s fucked, too.  Dude, you should have All-State for a car like this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!  Do you have any idea what kind of trouble I’m in here, you sociopath?!”

I did, and I knew he was starting to realize it, too.  He was going to owe a lot out-of-pocket because of his thoughtless insurance choice.  I felt bad for him, but I made a vow right there not to loan him the money for all those car damages.  Because sooner or later, a guy’s got to grow up and take responsibility for himself.