An Open Letter to the NYC Cab Driver Who Hit Me

Are we on the same page, now, New York City Cab Driver? Good. I'd hate to explain that again, as it's difficult for me to type because someone crushed my right hand with a cab. But, cool, we can continue.

First of all, thank you for hanging out for a minute. Like, literally a minute. As I stood on the sidewalk, catching my breath and putting my cellphone back together (it shot out of my pocket and hit the street after you slammed into me with your automobile), I really appreciated that you waited a full 60 seconds before wordlessly speeding off, giving me no chance to get your license plate number, or name, or, like, a smile. If there was any confusion, it was probably my fault: I guess I should have said, "Hang out for several minutes while I process this" instead of "hang out a minute." That's a communication breakdown, and it's totally on me. My bad.
"This one's totally on me."

But, moving on, I just wanted to let you know what happened after you left. You sped off so quickly (due to, I imagine, a fairly busy schedule of fucking yourself), that you have no idea how the story ends.

After you left, two NYC Strangers (Dave and Dan), came over to check on me and make sure I wasn't, among other things, dead (a courtesy you hadn't extended, which is understandable; you're the President of Fucking Yourself, who am I to take up your time?).

"Man, you really went flying," Dave said.

"Flying, huh? Just like-" I cut myself off. Don't say Spider-Man, don't say Spider-Man, don't say Spider-Man. He'll think you're delusional. "Just like ... Aquaman?" WAY WORSE.

"We should absolutely get you to a hospital," Dave said. Then another taxi pulled up and offered to drive me right to the hospital, free of charge. And he didn't even hit me! New Yorkers, I tell ya. "City That Never Sleeps," more like "City Full of Really Nice Guys!" What's that? Manhattan is the City That Never Sleeps? Oh. My bad. I must not be thinking straight. For some reason.

I declined Random Cabbie Who Didn't Hit Me's offer for a ride and I assured Dave and Dan that I was meeting some friends, and that they would take care of me. When my friends arrived, Dave and Dan released me into their care saying, "Please make sure you look after him."

Maybe some friends would have forced me to go to a hospital, but my friends are all also Internet sketch comedians, so we went to a bar, having collectively decided that I "seemed OK" (what Internet sketch comedians lack in medical expertise, we more than make up for in blind confidence). I told the bartendress, another friend of mine, that I'd just been hit by a car. She poured me a shot of whiskey and asked, "Is that why you were late?"

(God I miss the East Coast sometimes.)

And eventually I went home and typed this letter [with, I would later learn, a broken hand - Edit].

So that's it, New York City Cab Driver Who Hit Me For No Reason And Didn't Stick Around. No need to worry. I'm mostly fine, so you can get back to your packed afternoon of fucking yourself (if, in fact, you ever stopped [though I don't imagine you did, because stopping isn't exactly your style, amiright?! ZING! {My hand hurts so goddamned much!}]). I'll leave you with just a few stray tips, in case they don't teach this at the New York City Basement Night School Academy Of Driving and Self-Fucking:

1) When you run through a red light and hit someone, find out if he/she is alright -- people aren't as strong as cars!

2) When you hit someone, maybe stick around for a bit.

3) When you hit someone, certainly don't glare at them angrily, especially when you're in the wrong.

4) Maybe just don't hit people at all, anymore. Or fewer. Hit fewer people. Try your best.

Anyway I'm not dead.

Daniel O'Brien is's Senior Writer (ladies), and he is unstoppable, even if you launch a cab straight at him (Dr. Octopus).

Dan isn't the only blogger with grievances, check out An Open Letter To Michael Cera and An Open Letter To American Express.

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