If you live in LA, you budget a certain percentage of your monthly income for parking tickets. I'm convinced that parking meter technology is far more advanced than we could possibly know. They say that internet advancements were made because of the porn industry. Well, aerospace satellite technology must have been developed by the parking police. They must have super powerful satellite telescopes that can zoom in on meters, see if that fucking thing is blinking, and then send a sneaky little message to the local Meter Maid who then breaks every traffic rule in the book to zoom over and put a ticket on your car before you walk out of the coffee shop.
Just now... just minutes ago, I got a parking ticket. Here's the story:
I had purchased about an hour on the meter this morning. I figured, "I'm not sure how long I'm gonna stay, I'll come back out in a little bit if I need to." I kinda got into some work, and ended up staying for awhile. So, I walked out to buy some more time. I stepped out of the door, and there he was. Fat and smug, he looked like a cross between Rush Limbaugh and a mean 3rd grader. We made eye contact just as that asshole was lowering my windshield wiper onto the ticket. He stayed his hand, just for a moment, then let the wiper snap down on my shiny, new citation with a resounding "fuck you, I AM the law".
Before I could even utter a word, he spun around to climb back into his glorified Big Wheel and squealed, "Don't even bother arguing, it's already in the computer. You should have paid more attention." The middle finger I flipped him at that moment did nothing to satiate the helpless anger that welled up inside me. I hated him, a lot. But here's the weird part: For some reason, I could tell he hated me, too. Not because I flipped him off, nor because my car had lingered a little past it's welcome. No, his hatred was coming from some black place deep inside him. The place that craves Cheetos more than getting laid. The place that can't stop thinking about grade school and all the kids who picked on him. The place that remembers every fat joke, every sobbing masturbation bonanza, every disappointed look from dad. He wanted me to feel that humiliation, that powerless vulnerability.
Well, asshole, you win. I'm mad. I'm gonna hate writing the 35 dollar check to your boss. And I'm gonna hate knowing that some percentage of that amount is going to you so you can buy another 120 ounce Mountain Dew. This is the place where I say something like, "Thanks for nothing. I hope you're happy, fatty." But this is just one of those instances where making other people miserable might make him laugh, but nothing could make him truly happy.