At the Piggly Wiggly, I parked my modest Volkswagen at the far end of the lot, in a sea of carless asphalt. When I finished shopping, I discovered some watermelonbrain moron had parked his gargantuan pickup truck in the space next to mine. The tires were right on the damn line, and the expansive body of the truck bulged outward, rearview mirror casting a shadow on the hood of my car. I had to squeeze between his door and mine, and could only open my door a fraction.
I was sincerely pissed off. I pictured the driver, wearing the visor which hung from the rearview, his expansive ass planted in the seat while his meat-red face munched on a hot dog that dripped ketchup and mustard on his polo-encased manboobs, rolling down the parking lot in a pickup with a bed that has never been used, listening to some numbf**k sing about his daddy’s old boat, while the truck’s cyclopean gastank burned and burned swimming pools of gasoline, the map of his imagination and perception never inspecting anything outside of his skin as he parks his micro-phallic instigated purchase directly beside my car, ignoring the ocean of empty spaces around.
I hope he gets caught naked in a deluge of tasmanian devils.