Illustration by Bob Aul Where's the love, man? First, you guys tow my car (from right outside my house! My house!!), leaving me stranded with no car before I have to go to work. I make frantic calls to get a ride, then you force me to haul my ass from Irvine to El Toro (10 miles away! Why El Toro?!) to find that all your people are on a lunch break. Not only am I waiting in the 90-plus-degree heat, but I'm also stuck waiting for the tow-trucking Earls to finish stuffing themselves with greasy burgers. News flash: when you assign people to lunch breaks, you don't send all your workers at once. Three phone calls to your headquarters and 45 minutes later, someone finally shows up—sure enough, sucking from a fast-food joint's 32-ounce cup. To the city of Irvine: your parking rules can suck it. To the assholes at the impound lot: I hope you fuckers enjoyed making me wait and taking money I couldn't afford.
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to “Hey, You!” c/o OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701-7417, or e-mail us at Le*****@oc******.com.
