Drive Angry

I've been fortunate over the course of my life to have never experienced getting my car towed. I've just never been blessed with one of my many beaters blowing up, and I've also never been retarded enough to earn a repo. It's kind of surprising that it's never happened. I mean, you know how many times you have to park in less than official spots when delivering? Seriously, Ramona's got a half dozen apartment complexes that you can't drive into and that have literally zero street parking. So really what is there to do besides park illegally? Usually this involves parking in managerial spots, postal truck spots or reserved tenant spots. Never handicapped spots, though. The fire lanes are the way to go. They're wide open for easy and unopposed access. Meanwhile the handicapped spots are heavily monitored and earn three times the fine of a fire lane. Makes sense though, right? I mean, let's really come down hard on the pizza guy that might be preventing someone with type II Diabetes from parking in the front row at Applebee's, but if we all collectively box out the fire department from accessing that crucial fire hydrant then all's forgiven. I really don't understand why allowing town square to be engulfed in flames is a forty dollar fine, but preventing someone that's 4' 11" from easy access to Walmart is a four hundred dollar fine. It just makes no sense.
I'm sure you can guess where this story is going. I was delivering to one of our less than luxurious apartment complexes and found only one spot available. A numbered spot, which means it was a reserved spot for a tenant. Not that big of a deal. I would park in reserved spots all the time, because what's the harm? Worst case scenario is a tenant has to wait the amount of time it takes to send a dick pic to their wife's sister to be able to pull in and park. Also, the odds of the people coming home in the exact three minutes that you're milling about the grounds is almost nonexistent. I mean, I'm just dropping off some food and leaving. I'm not bivouacking outside the pool area in hopes of scoring some primo Filipino tail. I want to leave as much as you want to park. Trust me. As delightful as your rusted over, no net basketball hoop with the homeless guy napping under it is, the comfort of my car's AC and the entertainment of the SVP & Russillo podcast slightly edges out getting cozy in your carport.

On this particular delivery I parked, went to the apartment, delivered the food and headed back to my car to make my exit. It took me maybe a grand total of a minute-and-a-half. Still, when I was headed towards my car I noticed I was blocked in by a Ford Aerostar that on closer inspection looked like it had been greased up in pigs fat, fucked and then lit on fire. It was like a smaller, more white trash version of the Breaking Bad RV. Except I'm pretty sure the owner's of this beast cooked and consumed far more crank than Cranston and his cohort ever did.
I proceeded to do what anyone in my position would do when blocking somebody out of their own spot. I apologized profusely and scurried to move my car. That's when the methed out monster of a she-beast that was piloting this loser landrover removed all 300 pounds of each ass cheek from her car seat and got in my face. She then proceeded to scream at me in all her toothless glory about how she was just going to park behind my car so I couldn't leave, that way she could get me towed. Sensible reaction, right? Seriously, why the hell was this bitch so hellbent on getting home anyway? I'm going out on a limb and guessing Bradley Cooper wasn't sitting in a banana hammock patiently awaiting Ursula's return. I'm guessing there's a much better chance that what was waiting for her looked like the corpse of John Goodman passed out on a mattress that fashionably resided on the cement floor of the apartment's living room.
For once I didn't take any shit. Well, I took less shit than usual. I said, "I'm sorry, but was the two minutes that I was parked in your spot really worth getting that worked up about? It's obvious I'm just delivering a pizza. If you move your car I'll be out of your hair."
Naturally, my hard hitting honesty was met with a calm and collected response. By that I mean she said, "You can't just fucking park wherever you want. You're so lucky I'm going to move my car for you. Don't ever park in my spot again."

Now listen here, bitch. I know where you live. That's not a threat. It's just a reminder that if I was insane I could retaliate. Luckily, I'm a pushover. She doesn't know that, though. For all she knows I'm delivering pizzas cause I'm down on my luck and need something to support my tweak habit and cover the cost of my side job that includes burying hatchets in the heads of hobos. Seriously, shouldn't we all think about what we say to strangers? Maybe we should all think about forgoing the freak outs so that the potentially crazy person that was being screeched at doesn't meander on back after work and return to the scene of the crazy crime with a cutlass and a bone to pick.
Instead of being rational she just did that exaggerated  inconvenienced sigh move that people with a lack of priorities put to use on an almost daily basis. It's that deep breath that makes it known that ISIS and the uni-bomber all look like Jesus Christ reincarnated compared to my rebellious reserved parking ways. She then proceeded to spend seventeen minutes trying haul all seven loads of her fat ass up into her Aerostar, all while making the proclamation that she was going to call the store and complain. 

Shouldn't this conversation have gone something like this:

ME: Sorry, didn't mean to take your space.
THEM: No worries. It was only a minute. 
ME: Thanks for understanding. Take care!
THEM: You too.

That's how this would of went down in a civilized world. But no, it just can't go that way. Life can't make that much sense. Instead we all have to act like toddler's throwing temper tantrums. This is the epitome of the motto Why You're Terrible. Why we're all terrible. Why we just need to think about what we're doing. Why we need to bring back chemical castration. Why I need to stick push pins in my ear drums to lessen my pain. Why I need to go bowling right now to blow off some steam.