To my dear neighbors across the street, Mr. and Mrs. Asshat,
I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the kind note you left on my windshield this morning, complementing me on my fine parking. Unfortunately, I never got to see it, because my sweet husband took it off my car, thinking it may put a damper on my otherwise glorious day off. But then, oh THEN, you were thoughtful enough to call the F***ING police and have them leave me a little note of their own, wrapped in a bright orange wrapper.
Just a few queries: Were you afraid that the 18 inches of driveway I covered would impede your soccer mobile from exiting your 15 foot driveway? Or were you trying to set a good example for the three shrieking terrors that occupy the back seat of said soccer mobile? Perhaps my bumper was blocking the view of your wolf-dog that scares the ever-loving crap out of all passerby's? Did you call 911, or did you actually take the time to look up the phone number of the local precinct? Did you happen to catch my 38-week-pregnant-ass waddling from the car to my house at midnight last night, after parking in the last possible spot on the street, and that somehow made you determined to make me pay?
Well, Mr. and Mrs. Asshat, I envy you. I envy that you have nothing better to do with your ever-loving time than make it your business to be the street parking patrol. I'd love to help you out, but I have to get down to city court. Why? Because I would rather spend 12 hours in the courthouse than pay that ticket, you dick heads.