A Letter to the Wretched Wanker Who Parked Next to Me

Dear Idiot Oversized Tank Driver:
I cannot believe that you parked next to me in the impossibly small space clearly marked for "compact cars only" in the Parking Deck of Death. I mean, I've only been in it three times now, and let's face it, there's hardly room in those spaces for a moped. So what were you thinking, you yuppie sleezeball, parking in that tiny, tiny space and effectively trapping me in the space next to the poor unsuspecting somewhat-used Camry? Because I had no way to get out. I mean, it was an Austin Powers moment times ten, but as careful as I was, I still scratched the Camry's bumper and mine. That's right, King Suburban. Your craptastic parking job forced me to hit a parked car in order to get out of my parking space - and I was there first. What was the problem? Couldn't put down your Starbucks long enough to figure out your behemoth car couldn't fit in the space? So then I stood there, wringing my hands and wondering what to do and left a hastily scrawled note for slightly-used Camry that said, "I hit your car. If you need to reach me, call me. My apologies."

And this is my note to you. I hate you, King Suburban. I was already having a vile, miserable day. Thanks for making it even better. Because of you, I cried on the way home. I hope you can live with that.

Have your insurance people call my insurance people.

Ash