Anger In America

I was guilty, not even Saul Goodman could have pled my case.

It was Saturday, the office parking lot of 22 spaces was empty when I pulled into it, so I slid into a space closer to the elevator than my own.

I figured this was my right as a lazy American. Why should I be subjected to unnecessary exercise? I took squatters rights on the vast expanse of parking; I was only going to be there a short time. It was a drive-by parking job, no big deal.

Wrong-o, boy-o. It was a HUGE deal. When I came down, twelve minutes later, another car was in the lot parked next to mine. Now there were two vehicles occupying the expanse of concrete.

Under my windshield was the piece of paper pictured above. Apparently I was in HIS/HER parking space. I assume it was a man, a very angry man. A very angry and possessive man. I’d knocked his world off its axis. I had invaded his space, inconveniencing him by forcing him to walk an extra two or three steps to the elevator.

I read his raging words with the underlined emphasis on “MY” and decided I’d keep it handy. The note is posted at my desk at work (not far from my latex glove collection) as a reminder that many Americans are bubbling cauldrons of rage primed to erupt at the slightest provocation.

We all need to chill, or, at the very least, fence in our parking spaces.

POSTSCRIPT: I felt somewhat guilty as I slashed his tires, gave the car a world class key job and lit it afire.