I can see from the tire tracks on my lawn that you skidded for almost twenty yards before barreling into my wooden fence, and judging from the mud splattered all over the place, it must have taken at least 45 seconds for you to extricate your car.
Still, I am surprised that none of my neighbors heard the commotion, and it appears that your daylight hit-and-run went unnoticed this afternoon. You managed to speed off through the neighborhood undetected, no doubt grinning as you dusted off your spiffy new Port Authority clothing, and I get stuck with the bill for repairing the damage.
Lucky you, and unlucky me.
Thus, I hope that there is such a thing as karma, and that your cowardly refusal to take responsibility for the destruction of my fence merits you an equal or greater karmic reprisal. So to the inbred swine who wrecked my fence: hear my curse. I consign you - and your kind unto the last generations - to the deepest of hells. May you suffer eternal torment, pain, and unhappiness. When you start to think you can stand it, may these miseries worsen. May you suffer eternal migraines, constipation, and ingrown toenails, and may all the malevolent curses ever known, since the beginning of time, to this hour, fall upon you.