You are a discerning individual, you have truly arrived; you have the exquisite taste to drive an early 90s Honda Accord, that, while a bit lived-in, conveys an ease, a comfort to truly be yourself. Be damned, snobby Lexi or faddish hybrids: you will stay with a classic. The world is your oyster, and you have the confidence to thumb your nose at society's dowdy conventions of "rules" and "conduct." You don't need to stay within the lines. Literally. People envy you your high-falutin devil-may-care savoir-faire. You don't always drink beer, but when you do, you drink Dos Equis. You have the liberty, the power, as a globe-trotting sophisticate, an impresario of the city of Burbank's municipal parking structures to park wherever, HOWEVER you want:
Imagine my frustration to find that the spot to your left was the last one available to me on the first floor of the garage this morning, obviously overlooked as impossible by fellow passers-by. Imagine my dismay at the selfishness, the greed, the oblivion, that almost forced me to drive down to the second floor. Well I was not going to have it. I lustily nosed my car into that tiny spot, hemmed in by cinder block on the left and dumpy Honda on my right; our mirrors the lips of air-kissing society wives, and I parked.
It is my pleasure, nay, my joy, to throw my passenger side door on the angry dent grenade simply to illustrate the point that you are rude. If I come back to my car this evening and find it has been keyed from stem to stern out of anger that you had to crawl across your center console, it will be worth the body work just to prove that we are LIVING in a SOCIETY. Park accordingly.
Best Regards,
Dear Crabby
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