Fast forward to 2007. It’s Friday night. I am expecting some company. I park next to my assigned space, so company won’t get hassled. The next door space has a post, and a curb in front of it. My Mustang has a long hood. My liver has a couple of Busch beers to process, thanks to my neighbor the Blues Traveler, but it’s been a couple hours for that swill to work its way through.
Parking should be easy enough, right?
- stay between the lines
- don’t hit anything
- don’t spill your drink
Well, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad. Stupid fucking pole.
Anyway, thanks to that ass biter Reagan, bumpers do get to be obliterated by a stiff breeze and meet the federal standard. So, that impact, which was less severe than that time I hit was run into by the angry fat chick in the crosswalk, creased my fricking bumper. I hit a street sign at 10 minutes to 1982 on black ice and did less damage. I nailed my scoutmaster in the ass rearended my scoutmaster collided with a Mercury Marquis tailgate and did less damage.
WTF, you dead bastard? What were you thinking? Oh wait. Reagan. That’s like asking W what he was thinking. Jelly beans; “Walker, Texas Ranger.” Tomayto; tomahto.