I Hate Parking Lot Jockeys

As I've stated before, I am relatively lazy. I get lazy over stupid things. I would rather carry Dom DeLuise's coffin up thirty flights of stairs than get off the couch to turn off the lights in the hallway. Little things turn into earth-shattering dilemmas. Who the fuck put the hamper seven feet away from where it used to be? You expect me to get up and walk over to it, and then put my shirt into it? Fuck no, not happening. How about I stay seated and I try to throw it in?

(throws shirt)
(shirt lands five feet short of hamper on top of lit candle)

It's a given that I do things like this at least fourteen times a day. I almost starve daily because I don't feel like walking outside to get food, even though this is Manhattan and there are 5,000 places to get food withing arm's reach. That rumbling you hear, it's called STARVATION. But fuck it, I'll just chew on some printer paper and see how long that keeps my stomach from turning cannibal and feasting on itself.

But I will never get lazy over things that will ultimately become an inconvenience. I can't be inconvenienced. DO NOT INCONVENIENCE ME. I am busy. Can't you see me pretending to do shit even though I'm really imagining who will play the lead in the movie version of "World War Z"? Exactly, I'm busy, so leave me the fuck alone. I would honestly rather spend an extra $400 on a TV than ever step foot into an electronics store during a major sale. I treat those places like tuberculosis hospices.

But over the weekend, I had to go to Home Depot to get some shit even though I knew that the parking lot would be an absolute mob scene filled with douchebags trying to out-douchbag other douchebags with their douchebag BBQ spread. Honestly, I was still not prepared for what I encountered. Holy-fucking-shit, I completely forgot just how ridiculous these places get during holiday weekends. It was like a methadone clinic opened up outside a rehab center. The parking lot was swarming with fat assholes who would rather spend three hours baking in their Dodge Stratus's, waiting for a spot within throwing distance of the front door than just park a good distance away and waddle their asses through the front door. Oh no, that would involve EXERCISE. There were cars standing idle everywhere, blocking traffic, and slowly trailing people to their car like perverts outside a Victoria's Secret. And everyone was fucking PISSED. About what? I have no idea. No one is ever forced to go to Home Depot, they made the decision to tear their stupid kids out of the house, pack them into the car, and drive them to a place that is as interesting to them as learning about the economic trends of Indonesia. But regardless of whether it was voluntary, these people were honking and screaming out their windows and yelling at their kids with such ferocity that their Blue Blockers were falling down their noses and dangling from their gullets. And some of them would get so upset that they would peel out and almost mow down elderly couples trying desperately to avoid both heat stroke and these fucking lunatics simultaneously.

The scene was a living, breathing oxymoron. Mr. Obese McFatshit, who spends twenty-three hours a day lying on his couch watching TruTV bloated and limp like a rotting whale carcass, and then suddenly realizes that he needs to restock on pork loin and Gouda, rolls off his couch and heads to the store where he loses his patience in seven seconds because the truly handicapped people are having a tough time loading their new wheelchairs into the back of their Honda*. It was shocking just how quickly people flew off the handle over situations they placed themselves in. HOW DARE YOU TAKE LONG TO MOVE YOUR CAR FROM THE SPOT I AM WAITING FOR? I'M HERE WAITING AND BLOCKING 67 CARS FROM PROCEEDING WITH THEIR LIVES BECAUSE I AM A FUCKING WORTHLESS DRAG ON SOCIETY!

I wanted to put polished nickel lawn furniture through each and every one of their windshields.

I can't mentally comprehend how or why someone could actually want to wait in line for a fucking parking spot. I like parking far away. It's not like I enjoy the exercise, but I do enjoy the space. Driving through spots to face bumper out is fucking awesome, just in case I need to make a quick getaway because I'm suddenly caught up in a heist and have to shoot my way out. When I'm out there all alone, at the back of the lot by the broken bottles and overgrown weeds, I pretend like I'm Mad Max and my area is the motherfucking Thunderdome. Just my car and a broken shopping cart and a vagrant wearing woman's Uggz with fuzzy tassels. Look at all you peasants fighting for your tiny spaces - I have an acre to park my car! Come out here and I will disembowel you with a fence post!

The worst offenders are the people who pull up on the curb right next to the entrance. There is a funnel of four-hundred-people-per-second going inside the store, and now everyone has to struggle past the bumper of a Chrysler Grand Voyager because this asshole thinks he is the most important person in the world. Oh, you need to get in? Well I need a new lawn chair, so have fun milling past my dirty car and getting dust all over your pants while my wife gives a clerk shit about some expired coupon she found in the Pennysaver and holds up the checkout line for an hour. If God was really vengeance-driven, he would have this person's tire explode while they they are texting and driving down the highway, and laugh as their van tumbles down an embankment and lands belly up in a shallow riverbed that's filled with alligators. Lesson served, sir.

Maybe I should be more mindful and not try my patience by going to these places during peak hours. But then again, what gives people the right to be such unmindful fucks? In the Utopia that my creepy brain creates, there is a guard who designates spots for people in busy parking lots. Crippled? There you go, right up front near the door. Mercedes? You will use that spot next to the rusted coupe with nine kids swinging the doors open and closed like fucking dent-inducing guillotines. Parking lot jockey with fast food bags all over your interior? Well, let's see. Umm, question 1: do you have a FUPA? Why, of course you do. Question 2: do you breath heavy while eating? Yes? Okay, see that pine tree cresting over the horizon, disappearing with the curve of the Earth? That's where you park. Try not to die on your way to the store.

*I can't stand when I see a gigantic pig with a handicapped pass dangling from their rearview mirror. It's absurd. When I see this, I start wishing that Red Dawn would actually happen, and Communism would sort these issues out. Extreme? Fucking-A right it is, but we're out of options, friends.


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