Can we all agree on something?

More specifically, can we all agree that sometimes I do stupid--really stupid--shit? I'm not talking about the all-too-common anyone-could-make-the-mistake-of-thinking-red-means-go-and-green-means-stop stupid. I'm talking about the certifiably institutionalizably severely retarded kind of stupid.

Like the time I was parking outside my mom's work and freaked out because the car wasn't stopping, only to realize I was pressing the gas pedal rather than the brake.

Or the time I gave my number to Kevin.

Or the time I made up the word "institutionalizably."

Well, last night, I did something beyond even myself. It was so stupid that I can't even come up with a label for it. After I tell you what I did, feel free to tell me what I should call it.

I got to work at ten til ten. About five after, my manager came out to the dining room and asked the servers if any of us had jumper cables. Excitedly, I thought of the winter car kit I got for Christmas and replied that I did.

I got the other server to run the dining room for me, and I proceeded to the parking lot to fetch the cables, move my car, and go bring electric life back into the poor dead battery. Examining the tag on the cables, I saw that the four places on which to put the cables were numbered one through four.

So, I did the logical thing: I skipped reading the tag and proceeded to attach the cables as numbered. The cars weren't started; the rain was drizzling lightly; and I could just feel the impending victory as I reached forward to attach the last cable.

Right as I was planning the phone call to my dad to announce proudly that I had used the winter car kit, sparks started flying, I jumped backward, and as the cables lit on fire, all I could do was back away while screaming to my manager that the cars were on fire.

In my moment of panic, I realized I didn't have my cell phone with me and no one seemed to be moving quickly enough as we screamed for someone to bring out a fire extinguisher and someone else to call the fire department.

One of my fellow associates (as the company likes to call us because apparently they think we feel special if we're "associates" rather than "employees") ran out and began spraying down the cars, and I watched in horror as my vehicle continued to relight itself.

Fire just kept jumping from the engine. And I just kept thinking, "Mom's going to kill me."

So, moments after the fires were put out and my fellow associates went inside the store, the fire engine showed up. Being the only one out there--and the one who created the mess--, I had the pleasure of explaining to the emergency personnel how I managed to light two cars on fire.

They checked things out for a minute, asked for names and addresses, picked pieces of melted jumper cable off the burnt white paint and melted battery casing of my poor little eggshell van (named "Mockdor"), then asked if I had tried starting the car.

"Fuck no! The car was just on fire a second ago and now the battery casing is melted and you want me to start the fucking car without knowing whether the battery is going to completely explode and engulf us all in flames in death!?!"

That's actually just what I thought. In reality I said, "No. I'm scared to."

So they urged me on, saying they didn't think the battery casing had melted through to the core, and I should try to start it. Climbing in, I watched as they pulled down the visors on their helmets and took a step back. Really comforting.

I had a moment of contemplation, sitting there with the door hanging open and my hand on the ignition. I couldn't decide if it was safer, in the event of explosion, to have the door open or closed. It seemed like less debris would hit me if the doors were closed, but that would also potentially trap me inside a flaming vehicle. Knowing that there were two fire fighters standing outside my door, I pulled it shut and tentatively turned the key.

Voila! It started. No fire either.

A wave of relief came over me until I realized I still had to drive it somewhere in the morning. My mother's husband (who I actually called my "stepdad" for once) told me to take it to a particular mechanic, so I did. They told me the battery was leaking acid.

The battery. was leaking. acid. Fucking acid. Do you know how scary it is that the car could've exploded while I was on my way to the mechanic!?

Well, anyway, I agreed to have the battery, light assembly, and hood release wire replaced. The mechanic also offered to sand down the panel and paint it for me if I went to the auto parts store and bought the paint. I did so and I have to return tomorrow to have the car fixed.

Total cost of being a dipshit: almost $700. That I don't have. To repair a vehicle I don't own. After an accident that could've easily been avoided.

"Do you know how to do this?" Mike asked. "No, but I'll follow the directions," I said. "I can do it so you can go back inside," Mike said. "No," I said, "Tiffany's watching the dining room for me; I can get it."

And the rest is history.