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Charlie Hatton
Watertown, MA
« The Only Thing We Have to Fear... | Main | Woofin' It »
The dream is alive.
For months now, some jackass has been double-parking his Mitsubishi convertible in the basement of the garage at work. Every damned day, in the same damned spot-and-a-half, like he owns the damned joint.
(Yes, I'm assuming it's a 'he'. I've never seen the driver, but like I said, it's a ragtop convertible. Last time I checked, women don't drive cars that compensate for small penises.
And did you notice the car in the picture above? That's just a pic of a similar model I found online, not the chariot of the jackass in question. And still it's not parked between the lines.
I'm thinking there's either some sort of 'retarded parker' clause in the leases for these things, or the cars are causing brain damage. Someone should really look into it.)
"I'm thinking there's either some sort of 'retarded parker' clause in the leases for these things, or the cars are causing brain damage."
Seeing the same car asininely parked every day -- especially when there are no other available spots in the basement -- gets old after a while. I've often walked past that car -- coming from a spot far further from the elevator -- with visions of sabotage dancing in my head. Soap on the rearview mirrors, field mice in the gas tank, replacing the spark plugs with cocktail weenies -- it's a little different every time. And I would never actually stoop to teaching the assbag a lesson like that.
Probably.
Still, every day I have the dream. But a few short hours ago, I thought the dream had died forever.
I left the office late tonight, as usual. On Fridays in particular, most people clear out pretty early, leaving my whole floor lonely, quiet, and empty.
(See? There's a good reason I stay late. I'm not just 'weird'.
Quiet, you.)
I closed down my computer, made my way to the lobby, and hopped onto the elevator going down to the garage basement. Just as the elevator doors were inching shut, a hand slipped between them and a person stepped in with me. It was the boss.
Not my boss. The big boss. The chief. The honcho majoro. El cheesus gigantus.
As we rode down in silence -- because it's tricky to have a conversation with someone who doesn't realize you exist -- I had an epiphany. I often leave the office late. Jackass double-parked car is often still there when I leave. Big honcho boss probably leaves late -- maybe even later than me.
Uh oh.
Clearly, if the boss owned the offending car, my dream of someday doling out a vehicular comeuppance would be dashed. I could conceivably, on a particularly vindictive day, send a message to a fellow peon by tinkering with his car. But I couldn't possibly risk fiddling with the big boss' ride. If he saw me, I'd be cooked. Quite possibly literally -- he's a powerful guy, and who knows what sort of perverted punishment he could get away with? I'm not saying he'd eat me or anything, but I wouldn't rule out being boiled in oil, or toasted in a chafing dish of some kind.
And even if he didn't see me, he's the boss. He's got minions. Hell, we're all his minions. If I actually keyed the guy's car or puked down his sunroof, I might even be contractually obligated to turn myself in. And that's some fine print I'm not interested in reading.
(And yes, I know I said it's a convertible, so it doesn't have a sunroof.
It's a figure of speech. I'm talking about puking down the boss' sunroof, euphemistically,
Not that way. Perv.)
Anyway, when the elevator doors opened, it was clear the game was on. There were only three cars left in the basement: my car straight ahead, the jackass two-space-filling tiny-peener-compensating convertible to the left, and an understated luxury sedan to the right. If the boss veered right, the dream was alive; if he turned left, I could never seriously consider rubbing Vaseline all over that car ever again.
Sure, I could laugh at his apparently underdeveloped penis and his obvious resulting inferiority complex. But only to myself. Minions, remember?
Luckily for my darker side, the boss wandered off to the right, hopped into his sedan, and drove off into the night. That left me alone with my car and the needledick convertible. I considered taking the opportunity to wreak some havoc, but all the excitement had tuckered me out, so I simply drove home. There will be other days to drain the jackass' transmission or bend his antenna into Slinky shapes.
And I don't mean euphemistically. Not this time.
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The trick to doing damage is to not cause any harm, so don't butter the windshield because god forbid the idiot has an accident and then you are libel....let the air out of the tires. Good luck.
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Butter his windshield. It is much harder to clean off than soap, leaves a film that gets dirtier as the days pass, and is technically not permanent damage. Just make sure there are no cameras in the garage.