Chapter 2 in my study of auto-related douche-baggery brings us to a grocery store parking lot. Rather than just parking further away in the wide open lot, our subject takes up spaces three and four so no one can get close to his CHRYSLER CROSSFIRE.
You haven’t washed your car. Your license plate screws are rusted to shit. It’s 9AM on a Sunday. Your car is smaller than every other car that managed to comfortably fit in one spot.
I was very upset that I wasn’t chewing a piece of gum to spit on your windshield.
