I was headed to the mall to complete the last of my yuletide gathering only to find out that our mall is apparently the only one on this side of the Mason-Dixon line (On a side note, that originally read “South of the Mason-Dixon line,” but I really wasn’t sure I am south of the line, and now I’ve read it so many times I’m not even sure that’s even what it is called. I guess I need to go to a remedial Southern History and Geography class). Anywho, because of the insanity of last minute shopping I end up circling the parking lot for 15 minutes trying to find an empty parking spot. I finally end up using the “Stalk the shopper method,” where you slowly creep down the aisle about 20 feet behind someone who is walking out to their car. It takes patience and its best to try to avoid people with strollers or other cumbersome items. In this situation, it was really my only option. I chose my target and executed my plan flawlessly. I clearly indicated my intention to park in the soon to be vacated spot by placing my directional indicator in the on position. As the target backed out she directed her vehicle into a spot between my car and the empty spot. In this tiny instant, the car coming the opposite direction (who had watched me wait WITH MY TURN SIGNAL ON!) swung into my parking spot. If I had gotten out and licked the parking spot I couldn’t have more clearly claimed the spot as mine. I’ll spare you the suggestions I shouted at the other driver, because they didn’t do any good then, and they won’t do any good now. Most of them involved telling him where he could go (park his car, of course).
So what now? Do I get out and say something? Do I honk my horn? Do I tell on him? Who do I tell? Is there a parking police? To calm down I kept telling myself how full of holiday cheer I was. When that didn’t work I resorted to asking myself, “What Would Jesus Do?” But the problem is, I think Jesus could probably afford the 6 bucks to have the old Chariot of Fire valet parked. Had he chosen not to and he had his spot jacked, he would probably command the earth to open and swallow the offender’s car in a deep chasm of molten fire and brimstone, thus freeing up the parking space. While I didn’t have the ability to call up fire from the bowels of the earth, I did have a softball bat in the trunk. So the following is a picture of the result.
Just kidding, I thought that me going all Sammy Sosa on the car in a packed parking lot might attract a little more attention than I was looking for. I needed something more subtle. I concocted the perfect plan. By strategically placing a small pebble in the top of each tire’s valve stem you can depress the valve thus causing the air to slowly leak out and resulting in four flat tires about an hour later. So I pulled onto a grassy spot near the perp’s car and found small rocks. As nonchalantly as possible I secreted myself into the rows of cars. I made it clear I was not going to get in my car, lest I be stalked by some crazed holiday shopper over-zealously seeking a hitching post for their iron pony. After I did the deed I then sat and watched the tires go flat and snapped a picture with my cell phone of the look on his face when he came out to four flat tires…SUCKER!!!
Alright, I didn’t do that either. So what did I do? I drove around for another 15 minutes until I could find another spot, that’s what I did. Then I wrote a story about it a month later on my blog. And to the guy who stole my spot…Merry Christmas, Buddy… Merry Christmas.
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