I went to Famous Dave’s for lunch yesterday. There was one of those massive pickup trucks parked at a strong slant in one of the spots, with their front end about a foot into the next spot. That next spot, though, was the only free one, so I parked there anyway. I squeezed in, and was still able to get through my door. And I was exactly in the center of the spot, where I was supposed to be.
When I came out of the restaurant afterwards, the truck had left and there was a note on my windshield that said, “Next time leave me a fucking can opener.” I almost wish I could have been out there when the dude was getting mad at me for HIS bad parking job, so that I could kick his ass if he tried anything.
This anecdote has been your daily evidence that all individuals who drive gigantic pickup trucks are gigantic assholes.
“People seemed to like this better, but only marginally so—the way one might prefer to be stabbed than shot. Optimally, one isn’t stabbed or shot. Optimally, one eats some cake! But there are times when cake is not available, and instead we are destroyed. This is the deep poetry of the universe.”
—Tycho Brahe, Penny Arcade