Wanted to teach my daughter to drive a stick shift using my 1984 Toyota pick-up. (Known as the Gator truck amongst neighborhood kids due to its deep blue color and its orange "Gators" script on the tailgate.) My wife decides she'll give the daughter lessons first. I'm thinking this is a bad idea (that's a story for another time) but I relent and handover the truck keys. The daughter drives a short distance to a nearby horse farm and I expect the wife to return alone in 20 minutes or so.
An hour later I'm on my tractor mowing acreage when it occurs to me she hasn't returned. I drive the tractor to the farm to see what's up. Upon approach I see the truck parked in a field next to a FL state trooper car, my wife and a female trooper conversing. Not good. As I pull into the farm's long driveway I notice a portion of a wooden fence is demolished with splintered planks and a post strewn about the ground. Not good. Then I pull up next to the wife and trooper. I glance at my truck. The front fender and grill has a deep hairlip-like dent in the middle. Not good.
Now my wife is not known for her sense of place and timing when it comes to humor. Her first words to me are, "Honey, this is Trooper Smith. We hit her car." Sh*t. Not good. I didn't have a gun so I decided to run her over with the tractor-mower but thought better of it a moment later.
Longer story shortened, the wife was joking; the daughter was resting in the farmhouse, fine physically but thoroughly embarassed by exploding through the fence on her first road drive in front of her horseriding friends; the wife and I bought lumber and repaired the fence that day; once the mentally scarred daughter unfolded from the fetal position, she refused to ever drive a manual shift again.