Calvin Klein, He's Not Me

Illustration by Bob AulYou're the owner of the glorified station wagon UV/pimped-out low-rider/rice-burning hot rod/shit-kickin' Bigfoot Jr. who is either too selfish or too retarded to park within the clearly defined parking lot (or curb) space. First you ignored my hand-written notes, politely requesting fair and equitable parking practices in the future. You couldn't miss them. They were taped to the center of your windshield. Next you laughed off the insulting business cards I had printed at Staples. I know you read them; you pulled one out of your wallet for a laugh with your “friends” at that overpriced bar. Then you failed to comprehend the message in the snot-encrusted loogies that I diligently hawked at your door handles. You continued to take up two, sometimes three parking spaces in the hope of avoiding the highly unlikely door ding. Suffice it to say that didn't work. Are you curious what the “C K” emblazoned upon your door (or rear quarter panel) stands for? It's not an edgy guerrilla advertising campaign for foul-smelling cologne. “C K” is my new calling card; similar to the “Z” left by Zorro on the backs of evildoers. But I do not use a sword. Let “C K” be a clarion call toward truth, justice and equitable parking for all. You have been forewarned, scoff-courtesy parking jack-holes. Your assaholic parking job may protect you from a door ding, but nothing can protect you from a righteous visit by Captain Key.

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