An Open Letter to the Guy in the Black Passat Wagon

Hi.

Just what the fuck is your deal, pal?

You insist on parking your black Passat wagon the wrong way on our street, and you do it every day. Parking is only permitted on one side of our street, and everyone else parks facing west-- the flow of traffic, but you park your black Passat wagon facing east. Yours is the only car parked the wrong way.

Our street is only one block long, as you know, so the fact that there are only approximately fifteen cars on our street all doing one thing and your car doing another really kind of makes you stand out. The red Fit parks correctly. The old fucks who own the stupid-looking, bloated-ass Buick Rendezvous and the Buick Century that is mysteriously covered in a clear, plastic tarpaulin-- those cars face the right way. Even the black family who abandoned their non-running 1990 Honda Accord with three tires and a donut at the corner of our street a month ago at least had the decency to park it facing forward.

But then there's your black Passat wagon, facing the wrong way, every day, like a great, big, black, German middle finger extended not only at parking rules, not only at The Man, but at the rest of us who try to get through life doing the right thing.

Doing the right thing doesn't concern you much, does it? See because, if it did, you would park correctly. It's really not hard. Some of us come home from a hard day's work and we actually have to drive around the block in order to have our cars facing the correct way when it's time to park on our street. It takes an extra, oh, I don't know, forty-seven seconds. You could do that, too, if you wanted. But you clearly don't want to.

And I know why.

Because you're bald, motherfucker.

That's right. I've seen you. Your head looks like a giant penis because it's completely hairless and bullet-shaped, and you're not sexy like Yul Brenner or even Kojak or Skinner from "The X-Files" or Mr. fucking Clean. You just look like a cock, and you behave like one, too. A defiant, rule-breaking, parking-decorum-ignoring dickhead.

And you're a mean sonofafuck, too. I know-- I've heard you yelling at your little son who, hopefully, will one day grow up into the kind of guy who will run you over with your own black Passat wagon.

Look, I'm sorry all your hair fell out and shit, and you yell at your son because you're impotent and frustrated and angry at God and all, but, seriously, will you just park your car the way everybody else on our street does? You're nothing special, okay? You don't work for the CIA or NASA or Obama or anything cool like that, so you don't get parking privileges on our street, sorry. There's two cars the next street over that have State Department license plates and, guess what, cock-neck? They park the right way, even though they're too cool for rules.

I realize that, for some reason, you are under the impression that societal norms, the unspoken, unwritten rules and codes that keep us all in line and not participating regularly in looting, wife-swapping or ritual murder simply don't apply to you. I don't know-- maybe I should be writing an open letter to your fucking mom who obviously let you track mud and shit into the house growing up and looked the other way while you kicked the family dog in the face. But there's a lot that can be gained emotionally by simply playing along with everybody else. For one thing, people won't write angry blog posts about you. Then, maybe people in the neighborhood will actually say "hi" to you. But by choosing to abandon and forsake the simplicity of everyday courtesy, you are putting you and your family on a very lonely island, where your black Passat wagon is the glittering, glowing, and unkind beacon of "FUCK YOU" to the rest of the world.

Is that the world in which you want to live? Ask yourself this question and then maybe you'll spend the extra forty-seven seconds it takes to drive around the fucking block and have your car facing the same way everybody else's does. You'll be amazed at how good conformity feels sometimes.

Sincerely,
Mr. Apron

P.S. Oh, and thanks so much for baking us brownies and throwing us a block party and so generously welcoming us to the neighborhood.

Dickhead.