I heard this story the other day:

John's father is into really nice sports cars. Now I don't know exactly what type of car he had, but it was a 1999, expensive, sporty vehicle. A few nights ago John was going to go out with his friends, and he asked his father if he could borrow the car. For some reason, his father agreed, handed him the keys, and John sped away in the aforementioned expensive vehicle. John and his friends proceeded to get wasted. Yes, like any other responsible young men-about-town, they drank themselves silly and drove around.

As the evening drew to a close, John drove each of his friends home and then sped down the highway. Pulling off at what he thought was his exit, he realized that this miscalculation in steering would take him at least twenty minutes out of his way. So John reacted to this situation like any other liquored up son of a sports-car driver would: He threw it into reverse. Unfortunately, this tiny excursion soon ended when a Jeep Cherokee, speeding up the exit ramp, smashed into the back of John's car, flipping it into a ditch.

John pulled himself from the car unharmed, walked over to the curb and sat down. This was the phrase, John began to repeat over and over in his head:

"I'm fucked."

The police and the paramedics arrived, and shouted over to John, asking him if he was alright. He shouted back a less than resounding "yes," and both the police and the paramedics attended to the man in the Jeep who had broken both his legs.

John sat on the curb for what seemed to him to be at least a half hour. He hoped that the man was not seriously injured. He returned to his previous frame of mind:

"I'm fucked..."

After ten or so more minutes, one of the police officers walked up to him and this was the first thing he said:

"That guy was so drunk, he thought you were going in reverse."