Charles Longan v. William Randall

Let’s get one thing straight: this is not the kind of Christmas story you put on a Hallmark card. No twinkling lights, no warm cocoa, no jolly old St. Nick. Instead, we’ve got a parking lot, a collision, and a $75,000 lawsuit that makes you wonder if someone left the eggnog spiked a little too hard. Because according to the legal filing, on December 24, 2024—the day the world traditionally celebrates peace on Earth and goodwill toward men—William Randall allegedly plowed into Charles Longan’s car in a Newcastle, Oklahoma, parking lot, turning what should’ve been a quiet holiday errand into a full-blown legal war.

Now, who are these people? Charles Longan and Elvis Childers—yes, Elvis Childers, as in “the King,” though we can’t confirm if he was wearing a sequined jumpsuit at the time—are two McClain County residents who, on that fateful Christmas Eve, were just trying to get through the holiday like the rest of us: probably stressed, possibly running late, and definitely not looking to star in a civil court drama. Charles was behind the wheel. Elvis was riding shotgun. And William Randall? He’s the alleged Grinch who stole their peace of mind—or at least their sense of vehicle safety. The filing doesn’t say where he lives exactly, only that it’s “believed to be” Oklahoma County, which is the legal equivalent of saying, “We’re pretty sure he exists, and also, he might have a driver’s license.” What’s clear is that all three men were in the same parking lot off Highway 62 North Service Road, a spot that, on any other day, would be utterly forgettable. But on December 24, 2024? It became the scene of what may be the most dramatic parking maneuver since Ferris Bueller backed into a cop car.

So what happened? According to the petition, Charles Longan was driving his vehicle—make, model, and year unreported, but we’re picturing a sensible sedan, maybe a silver Camry with a “Baby on Board” sticker that’s actually for his dog—through a private parking lot when William Randall, operating his own mystery vehicle (again, unreported, but we’re leaning into the idea it was a pickup with oversized tires and a gun rack), allegedly failed to pay attention, failed to yield the right of way, and failed to operate his vehicle in a “safe and reasonable manner.” In plain English: he screwed up. And in doing so, he allegedly smashed into Longan’s car. The impact? We don’t know if airbags deployed or if there was a dramatic spin-out. But we do know that both Longan and his passenger, Elvis Childers, claim they walked away with injuries that are described as “may be permanent, painful, and progressive.” That’s legal-speak for “we’re not sure how bad it is, but it hurts now and might hurt forever, so you’re paying.” They also say they’ve already incurred medical expenses and will continue to do so, which is never a fun holiday receipt.

Now, why are we in court? Because negligence, baby. That’s the legal dish du jour. In Oklahoma, like most places, negligence means you had a duty to act safely (driving is one of those things), you failed to do so (hello, inattentiveness and failure to yield), and as a result, someone got hurt (cue the medical bills and emotional distress). The plaintiffs aren’t alleging Randall was drunk, texting, or doing donuts in the parking lot while blasting “Jingle Bell Rock.” But they are saying he wasn’t paying attention, didn’t yield, and didn’t drive safely. Three strikes, you’re in court. And since both Longan and Childers are suing separately—each with their own count of negligence—they’re each claiming they deserve over $75,000. Wait, what? That’s $150,000 total? Hold up.

Ah, but here’s the twist: the total demand listed in the filing is $75,000. Not per plaintiff. Total. So either someone’s doing math wrong, or—and this is more likely—the $75,000 is a combined ask, even though the “WHEREFORE” clauses in both counts demand “in excess of $75,000.” This is the kind of legal ambiguity that keeps law schools in business. But for our purposes, let’s just say they want a big chunk of change—enough to buy a brand-new pickup truck, pay off student loans, or fund a very luxurious Elvis-themed vacation (if that’s your thing). Is $75,000 a lot for a parking lot fender bender? Well, if we’re talking about a dented bumper and a $500 repair, then yes, that’s highway robbery. But if there are ongoing medical treatments, physical therapy, missed work, and long-term pain? Suddenly, $75,000 doesn’t seem so outrageous. Still, suing on Christmas Eve? That’s some next-level holiday spirit.

And what do they actually want? Money. Specifically, “judgment against Defendant in an amount in excess of $75,000.00, together with interest and costs of this action.” They’re not asking for Randall to apologize, to mow their lawns for a year, or to perform a public reading of ’Twas the Night Before Christmas. Nope. They want cold, hard cash. And while the filing doesn’t specify how the damages are broken down—how much is for medical bills, how much for pain and suffering, how much for emotional trauma of having your holiday ruined—we can assume it’s all on the table. Also notable: no punitive damages are requested. That means they’re not accusing Randall of being malicious or reckless—just negligent. So he wasn’t, say, drag racing through the parking lot or trying to reenact a Fast & Furious scene. Just a bad driver having a bad day. Which, honestly, could describe most of us at some point.

Now, our take? Look, car accidents happen. Parking lots are the wild west of modern driving—no stop signs, no traffic lights, just a chaotic free-for-all where eye contact is the only rule. We’ve all had that moment where we inch forward, wave someone on, then both lunge at the same time like startled deer. But turning that into a $75,000 lawsuit? On Christmas Eve? That’s the kind of energy that makes you side-eye your neighbor who stole your newspaper. The most absurd part? Not the collision. Not even the amount. It’s the timing. The fact that this allegedly went down on December 24—the day of family dinners, last-minute gift wrapping, and trying to avoid political arguments at holiday parties. And instead of coming together, someone decided to document injuries, call a lawyer, and file a petition that now lives forever in the McClain County District Court records. Imagine the awkwardness at next year’s family gathering if Randall shows up. “Oh, hey, didn’t you sue me while I was eating Christmas cookies?”

But here’s the thing: we get it. Accidents hurt. Medical bills suck. And if Randall was texting, or speeding, or just plain not paying attention, then yeah, he should be held accountable. We’re not saying Longan and Childers are Grinches. We’re just saying that suing someone on Christmas Eve feels… extra. Like putting mistletoe in the courtroom. Still, we’re rooting for clarity. For proof. For someone to produce a security camera that shows exactly what happened. Because right now, it’s his word against theirs, and the only thing we know for sure is that nobody got sleigh bells.

So as we close this festive legal saga, let’s raise a glass—non-alcoholic, because driving laws matter—to all the unsung heroes of holiday driving: the ones who yield, who check their mirrors, and who don’t turn parking lots into personal demolition derbies. And to William Randall? Well, let’s just hope his insurance is paid up. Because peace on Earth might be out of reach, but a solid settlement? That’s still on the table.

(We’re entertainers, not lawyers. This is based on a real filing, but we’re not giving legal advice. Just holiday drama with a side of sarcasm.)