I hate YOU.
I really do.
To quote an old friend, you make my ass itch.
There is nothing more frustrating than trying to find a decent parking spot at the grocery store, dry cleaners, gym, pizza place on Friday night, church parking lot…and YOU squeeze into *the* last perfect spot. And, the backdrop to this scenario is the pelting down rain.
YOU, the upright walking man, with no people attached to you, no burden of ripened age or other physical anomalies saddling you down, takes *the* spot in the front. And, of course, you are usually driving a so fresh and so clean nice car. Albeit, it was a departure gift from Mommy & Daddy when you graduated from that pinkie-up liberal arts college with the ROI which yielded you the same entry level job at Mega Corp as the rest of us. And somehow you managed to drop $8K at Pep Boys on curb feelers on this vehicle you refer to as the White Mamba. No chance of old Horizon strawberry milk boxes accruing deadly bacteria in the cup holders in that baby.
YOU have me most apoplectic in the church parking lot on the Sunday mornings we decide show up. Whilst I am happy you are making it to church, and so is your Mommy, I actually hear the horrific profanity begging to burst from my vocal chords…only stopping because of the presence of my small children. (God will forgive me for my salty vernacular, I doubt the school teachers will be as understanding.) It is always those dank January mornings, I even leave early to secure a coveted spot in the attached parking lot. But no, 6 times out of 7, *the* last spot will be taken by YOU.
Yes, I understand that someone like YOU is going end up as my future boss, but I take solace in the fact that 15 years from now, you will be the one in the minivan, children aplenty, scrambling for a spot. Just beware of the black haired, bespectacled fifty-something in the German convertible swooping in to take *the* spot from you at The Pizza Palace. You’ll know it’s me, just look for my curb feelers…