Monday, January 16, 2012

Dear Guy Standing In A Parking Spot To Hold It For His Friend

It is not often I have lunch with my mother and sister.  Mostly because they won't let me come unless I promise not to make a scene.  I don't make promises that I cannot keep, so I don't get to come out to lunch very often.  However, every once in awhile, they forget that I have a tendency towards righteous indignation, and I get some free lunchtime chicken wings. 

All was going so very well.  I'd gotten in the car, and I didn't freak out about anything.  We'd ridden through town, and I didn't scream out the window at anyone because they had wronged me.  The restaurant was in sight, and there was a spot in front!  I was so close to ruining my shirt in a sauce related incident that I could taste to garlic and asiago that would gently be caressing the lovely wing meat.  Predictably, this is where you came in.

As we angled towards the spot, lo and behold, we see an old fat guy (this is you, assface) jump out of the car in front of us, and run into the parking spot.  We nudged forward, waiting for you to get on the curb and go to the restaurant, and you just stood there.  Confusion took over, was quickly replaced by panic, and was then put to rest by my old friend, hellfire rage.  You girthy little bald bitch, you were standing in the spot as your friend circled the block, since he had been too far forward to pull into the spot before us. 

Unfortunately for the world, my mother was quick to hit the window locks before I could act.  She also veered back into the street before I could jump out of the car and carve the word "Pie" into your porcine forehead with a shard of street glass.  All you could hear was my muffled screams and see me giving you the crazy eyes as we rode past and found a spot a block away. 

I was surrounded by 3000 pounds of metal and flammable liquids.  You were surrounded in a sad looking scarf and a cheap overcoat that blind gay men would instinctively shun and ridicule.  I think we know who had the upper hand. 

What you owe me is a letter of apology to my mother.  You ruined her lunch by making me belligerent and revengalicious.  You made my mother cry, as far as you know.  You also owe her thanks, because she was the only reason I didn't pretend in front of the entire lunchtime crowd at the restaurant to be your illegitimate son come to finally confront you after years of neglect.  You owe her big time, because that scenario usually ends with me crying, asking why you never send birthday cards, then sobbing while I eat all the food on your plate.


  1. Vicki told me about this... I'm just sad that I wasn't there b/c as soon as she said it I told her I'd have distracted them and let you out of the car so I could join you a minute later... if I was driving I would have run him over.

    1. But you weren't Matt. You let me down again. You are no longer the Murtaugh to my Riggs.


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