Re: [UC] Parking Rage: Bloody Hell!!!

[Benseraglio2]

In a message dated 2/4/2005 9:37:11 PM Eastern Standard Time, [EMAIL PROTECTED] writes: What is the matter with people? Excellent question. The other night I was coming home from a long night of boozing, despite which my senses were keenly alert, fine-tuned to an A-sharp, sharp as a razor, likely due to the large quantities of methamphetamine which I had been imbibing along with my Old Overholt 40s down at the Conrad Grebel Bar and Grille. I maneuvered my Volva Sedan down 48th Street like the Millennium Falcon through the guts of the Death Star, neatly avoiding the pitbulls and Great Danes doing their business in the snowbanks. Arriving at my accustomed parking place I gently descended from hyperspace into a low hover when I perceived that some irksome neighborhood hooligan had staked out my personal space with several garbage cans, a vintage clawfoot bathtub, and what appeared to be an ancient Macintosh computer.   Needless to say I was enraged. I had spent the previous weekend shovelling out my personal space after the worst blizzard of the season and my back was still aching from the effort. What to do?   I considered dialing 911 on my cellular phone, or perhaps the Friends of Clark Park, or even my good friend Shaka Zulu the mayor. But I quickly reconsidered. From previous experience I knew the police would take several months to respond, the FOCP was locked in an interminable battle over the issue of constructing a gigantic private bathhouse in the Park, and the Mayor, an Adventist, was likely preparing his Sunday School lesson for the following day of worship.   Against my better judgement, I whipped out my trusty Bulgarian Shipka 88 submachine gun and blasted away until the loathsome debris was pulverized to smithereens and my personal parking space was clear. I was performing the elegant horizontal parallel parking maneuver known in some circles as the Bavarian Cakewalk, in others as the Viennese Oyster, when suddenly an elderly woman of a certain age hove into view driving a fire-engine-red '87 Camarro with Jersey tags and darted lickedy split into my space.   "Hell's bells, lady!" I ejaculated, but she merely looked at me smugly, got out of her vehicle, locked the door and began to totter down the street.   "Yo old woman!" I shouted after her, in a fine frenzy. "Have you taken leave of your senses? Are you not aware that I have spent several years cultivating this parking space with finely manicured bonsai trees at the curbside, fine herbs in the summer, which I take great pains to water and prune, and that I have just finished excavating it from the great blizzard? Bloody hell, woman, and forsooth! Shall I not blow you away from the face of the earth with my trusty Bulgarian Shipka???"   Unfazed the elderly damozel pointed to a sign on the dashboard of her car. Emblazoned in large purple letters was the word "Clergy."   "I'm on a mission from God," she said in a calm and dignified voice. "I have prepared a bomb which will blow the Presbyterians to kingdom come, and I am now on my way to plant it smackdab in the midst of the presbytery before the vicar comes by to dust down the church in preparation for this weekend's worship."   "Oh well, then by all means proceed," I said, mollified, for I knew that the foul plague of Calvinism which had spread its stench over the neighborhood was becoming too hot to handle. "Prithee, may I assist you in any way?"   "I'll be quite alright, young man," she said. "And judging from your boozy breath and general air of dishevelment, what you need now is a nice cup of hot chocolate and then to bed."   She's probably right, I reflected. I plopped the Volva down on the nearest available snowbank and headed for bed, suddenly exhausted by the events of the evening and an outsurge of adrenalin which left me weak, craving and wanting to holler for mama.     Ross Bender http://rossbender.org/dingirs.html