Dear Stupid People,
You don’t know me, but I was in the parking lot with you guys yesterday.
That was me, in the red Honda, trying to back out of my parking space.
Remember me, Mr. Blue Tricked-Out Ford Pickup?
How about you, Miss I Managed To Shove My Size HIPPOS AT PLAY Ass Into Size Six Electric Blue Stretch Pants?
Hey, I totally get the whole waiting game when it comes to parking spaces, especially at Wegmans. I’ve been known to wait a full five minutes for a good parking space during January when the parking lot has been transformed into a frozen tundra of hell and I’ve forgotten to pack the dogsled in the trunk and the next nearest parking space is three miles up Shit’s Creek.
Been there, done that, so I get where you’re coming from.
But you know what would have made this a much more enjoyable experience for all of us? And by all of us, I mean me?
Really? No idea?
- If you, Mr. Blue Tricked-Out Ford Pickup, had waited for my parking space without blocking me in. Yes, I saw your ginormous blinker flashing at me like a strobe light and made a mental note to buy new retinas at Target later that afternoon. I even gave you a little wave to signal that I was, indeed, aware that you were waiting for my spot and that instead of standing there reciting War and Peace as I had originally intended, I would proceed as expeditiously as possible to vacate the premises and allow us each to get on with our day. If you had stopped picking your nose for two seconds, you might have gotten a clue and backed up your pimped-out behemoth accordingly.
- If you, Mr. Blue Nose-Picking Tricked-Out Ford Pickup, had not glared at me and beeped your horn incessantly, presumably because you feared the acre of rubber that served as your bumper was in immediate peril of playing kissy with my roof, forcing me to raise my index, middle and ring fingers and yell at you to read between the lines.
- If you, Mr. Foul Mouthed, Nose-Picking, Cesspool of Miscreant DNA Driving An Ugly Ass Pickup, had simply backed the hell up all the way to the very edge of the earth and then fell backwards. Preferably last week. Taking your blue, tricked-out penis with you.
- If you, Miss Herd of Hippos, had worn only one gold necklace instead of 27, as well as darker pants made out of something other than elastic and which fit within a 20 mile radius of PROPERLY. Perhaps then, sunlight would have been your friend. But instead, it treated you like a 500 pound sausage dripping in fat, bouncing millions of rays of light off your many glistening rolls, directly into the eyes of unsuspecting drivers trying unsuccessfully to back out of parking spaces blocked by blue, tricked-out scrotums.
- If you, Miss Blinged-Out Herd of Hippos, had not signaled to me to continue backing out when you had every intention of continuing to walk behind me while I was doing so. Yes, I know that pedestrians have the right of way, which is why I stopped so as to allow you to proceed. Three times. And three times, you rolled your eyes, did a weird neck thing, yelled at me and waved me on, only to continue walking as soon as I inched backward, laughing the entire time. You left me no choice but to assume you are a drag queen with cojones the size of Epcot. Your utter lack of respect caused my left hand to show you that it’s your number one fan with the universally accepted hand signal for such. In stereo, since my right hand immediately followed suit.
- If you, Miss Blinged-Out, Hippofied, F*cked Up, Walking Personification of Tim Gunn’s Bad Acid Trip had simply walked to the very edge of the earth and jumped off. Preferably in 1980.
Gosh, guys. I don’t know about you, but I feel tons better now!