You drive a brand-new Tesla; I drive a beat-up Nissan. I opened my door and left a big scratch on your Tesla. “You hit my Tesla,” you growled. I mumbled a sorry and ran into a store. Then I thought about it: You’d probably call your insurance and find out I have none. So I looked for you and offered to pay you whatever you needed—just don’t call the insurance. “It’s all good, man,” you said. “But thanks for asking.” You didn’t even let me buy you a cup of coffee. Were you a Tesla Jesus or somesuch?
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