Oh The Douchebaggery

I've already written a bit about driving in RI.

I fondly refer to it as death cheatin'.

But parking is a whole other dirty prospect.
I have accumulated too many tickets to fathom over the course of my time here whilst (oh, yeah, I'm fancy now---read below) fostering a hefty pile of ill will for the losers whose job it is to nit-pick my closeness to the curb.
What can I say? I have peripheral vision issues.
So, I have one of these aforementioned losers who frequents my place of hell-ployment.

We'll call her George, because She looks like George Costanza in pleated shorts and a pony-tail.
George, I have your number and it has been called!

I came into work about fifteen minutes early after my pre-work party-in-my car dance session.

Cigarettes and a wee bit of hip-hop were consumed before I was dead-lady-walking it.

And I see George!

She's strolling her beat with a shifty "gotta' write a ticket right now" look in her eyes just as some unassuming guy pulls up on the curb to use the ATM. This happens every twenty minutes to little avail, so this dude has just been dealt a really unlucky hand. I think about warning him but he's wearing designer sunglasses, rocking a little too much Abercrombie, and leaving a trail of some really awful cologne.

God must hate me 'cause I just sat back and watched.

The offender gets out of his car as the lioness approaches.

He fiddles with his keys and she hides.

She bends down behind a car and pretends to tie her shoe!
Smarmy whore! I saw it go down.

As soon as this guy walks in to use the ATM George literally sprints to his car, leaves a ticket, looks both ways and runs off.

I hope you enjoy your next life, George. Because judging by your karma, you're coming back as a herpes sore.