Pumps and the Bumps!

Yesterday after class, I headed to yonder parking lot where my truck hath taken its stead for the past twenty-four quintets of minutes. As I approached yon carriage, I worried and hoped that mine eyes hath been possessed by the devil. Alas, upon closer inspection and analysis, sadly the only object hindering my vision wast the saline expelling from the ducts of mine eyes. The cause for the sudden sadness twas not because I hath been visited by the Virgin Mary herself. Nay! It was because SOME MOTHERFUCKER HIT MY CAR.

On the rear driver's side by the bumper, there's a good-sized dent, about the size of a human foot or a baby's torso accompanied by a good foot and a half or so of scratches. Of course, no note was left from the person saying that they were sorry that they hit my car and here's the insurance information so I can get it fixed. Of course not, that would all be too easy and too much of the right goddamn thing to do. I spent a good five minutes surveying the situation--checking to see if the car was still around, maybe in some other spot nearby. But I didn't find a thing. So I drove home sporting a fresh new set of battle wounds.

Being an expert at human psychology that I am, though, I knew I'd be able to find the snatchbasket that hit my truck. See, at my school, for some reason, people love to park in the same row all the time. I figured it would only be a matter of time until the bastard parked back in the same row; I just didn't know it would be so soon. Today, on my way to class, I walked along the other side of the row I was parked in, so I could see the fronts of all the guilty goddamn vehicles that park near me. As luck would have it, I found some blue Mitsubishi Diamante with what looked like a fresh scratch on the front passenger side bumper and my truck's color of paint all up in that shit. Also, the color of the car was the same color of paint that raped the side of my truck. The best/worst part about it, though, was that there was a damn rosary hanging from the rear-view mirror. I wasn't sure what to do in this situation, so I just took down the license plate, make and model of the car. A friend said I should have left a note, but I wasn't too sure. If I did leave a note, however, I think now that I'd just leave a note that says "What Would Jesus Do if he hit a parked truck?" and leave my phone number.

Anyway, the question I have is, I was wondering if anybody knows what I should actually do in this situation. I want the shit fixed, and I'm fairly sure that this is the right car. Do I call the police with all the information and let them follow up on it? If so, do I call campus police (I go to a University of California school--so it's a public institution), or the real police? If anybody knows the actual answer, let me know please. I've thought about pouring Jesus crackers (whatever those "Body of Christ" Nilla Wafers are that they give you in Catholic Churches) in the gas tank, or just standing outside the car all day with my wiener on the door handle until the person gets to the car.

I feel like Encyclopedia Brown by solving that mystery.

Jaxun, thanks for the promotion, the English on that second site you posted is fantastic and something I can only aspire to reach some day. You get a B+ and a Perfect Attendance Award.

Little-known fact of the day:
The reason Lincoln said "Four score and seven years ago..." in the Gettysburg Address is because he hates the number 80. Not too many people know that the number 80 date-raped his grandmother.