1942 Panic Attack

Life is pretty funny sometimes. Like the other day. I learned the meaning of the panic button on my car key remote fob. You know the one I'm talking about. It's the special button you push if you feel threatened. It makes the horn of your car go off in a gawdawful way. Honking and honking and honking.
So I'm going into my garage from my house. I haven't yet opened the outer garage door. In fact, I'm in the middle of reaching over to press that button on the wall. I don't have the lights on because they go on when I press that button too. My connecting house door is closing and locking behind me.
And somehow my metal keys on the same keyring jam up against the fob thingamabob and set off the panic button.
The car horn in that enclosed space is so loud it startles me. I'm actually panicked by the panic button. The startle reflex causes me to flail my arms and fling my keys into the depths of the garage.
So now I being pummeled by the pounding of the horn noise and freaking out because I can't see where I've hurled my keys. I start scrabbling around, looking into boxes and piles of those junk newspapers they leave in your driveway every week and cursing and fretting and wondering what my neighbors are gonna think about what the hell is going on in my closed garage with what sounds like a fog horn in heat.
And as I try to find the keys in the blinking lights from my now menacingly animated car, I tell myself I really got to clean my garage one of these days.
And that my life is sometimes like living in a bad Monty Python skit.
America, ya gotta love it.