Would it be that terrible to call the city abandoned vehicle hotline to remove the mid-80s Jetta that’s been occupying “my” street parking space for the last week?

I know, I know, the space doesn’t have my name on it or anything (and lord knows I leave my truck sitting there almost all day every day). But this one stupid interloper with its peacenik bumper stickers appeared one day, lazily parked in front of our house half-in and half-out of a reasonable spot (if you want to maximize parking on this block, not RUIN IT) and I was kind enough to forget about it and go on vacation for a week.

But it’s still there. I don’t think it’s moved an inch. It forces me to park some 20, maybe 30 feet away from where I usually park. And while this may seem petty, it’s messed up the whole natural order of the block. Not cool!

I’ve been at this house for two years, and I’ve been parking there for about as long. Bit by bit, I’ve established my presence to the extent that even our popular neighbors– they of the low-riding automobiles and incessant booty bass showboating as soon as the temperature hits 58F– have come to recognize that I’m a very cranky man if I can’t park in a place that strokes my epic sense of entitlement in all the right ways. We had a good thing going and this hippie fucked it up!

Who is this person? A neighbor’s new roommate? A bongo-playing dirt farmer from Eugene? The car sits and the mind… it reels! Yet I never see this spectral upper-middle-class douchenozzle. Has he pledged to use only public transit whilst visiting Portland? Is she busy gathering the necessary parts to run her VW off the fruits of a KFC fry vat? I want answers and I want them now!

Or I’m having your ass towed to Gresham.