If you were my friend on MySpace, you’ve already read the decidedly more risqué version of this little rant. However, in an effort to both share my hatred of the Brentwood Target parking lot and make my blog a bit more palatable for, well, everyone, I’ve spruced it up, taken out some decidedly non-lady-like verbiage, and bingo! The things I hate about this cursed piece of concrete conveniently located in a vortex of stupidity:
1. There’s usually at least one person blissfully walking off the curb in front of Panera, either on his/her cell phone, or chatting with the large group of similarly-dressed teenagers with whom he/she is clearly associated (they get a lot of volleyball teams in there, it seems.) Regardless, perhaps you should actually look before you walk in front of what is about to become a Honda Murder Weapon and also realize that maybe you should wait for oncoming traffic to ease before it becomes “breaking both of my legs in an unfortunate hit-and-run” traffic.
2. Let’s have a discussion about the “going to wait for someone to get in their car, reverse (complete with a 3-point turn – more on that in a minute) and then finally drive off” people so that they can have a parking spot that’s 3.67 feet closer to the entrance. These people, and their inability to walk another 3.67 feet, annoy the sheer crap out of me. In the time it took this person to wait on a parking spot, I’ve already driven to the Longhorn Steakhouse end of the parking lot, rocked the two-spot pull-through (no need to back in when you can pull through, eh?) and am now in the dollar section perusing Superman popcorn cups and Disney princess memo pads. So, while you waste 2 gallons of gas and contribute to the obesity rate of America, I’m happily scoring Chuck Taylors and awesome sunglasses at discounted rates.
3. And now let’s talk about the lovely 3-point turn. I’m not saying some situations don’t call for one. I’m saying that if it takes you 2 days and a traffic director to help you get out of your parking spot, the gigantic amount of money you spent on your Mercedes D-Class (I’ll give you three guesses as to what the “D” stands for in that line…and the first two don’t count) SUV has obviously been wasted. The ability to get out of your parking spot quickly is advantageous on 2 counts. 1. Less gas is wasted from the moron waiting those two days so he/she can have your moronic parking spot. 2. It will leave me less time to curse your name at increasing volume while I make fun of the sticker family you have plastered on the back windshield. And you don’t want your children to grow up to talk like me. I promise.
4. To the lady who walks in the middle of the road, completely unaware of anyone. Anywhere. At any point in time: I HATE YOU. Get out of my way, or I will run over you and your overflowing shopping cart full of granola and half-priced paper towels.
That is all.
That is all.
5. And to the “hippie” guy that just walked into Panera for their free wi-fi? You’re going to lose your hippie card, along with that back bumper filled with obscure band stickers if you cut me off again. No one needs a bagel that badly.
6. Finally, a general, “Screw you” to the people that annoy me, but I can’t really think of anything funny to say about them:
The lady with the soccer ball, the basketball, and the tennis ball magnets on her minivan with her child’s name “Stevyn” on them: Stevyn just ran in front of me. Should this happen again, I will not be responsible for little Stevyn’s fate. This will be less painful in the long-run, given his name is Stevyn.
The oranged hooker-esque types walking out of Sun Tan City, happily texting on their cell phone and oblivious to all things, you know, not them: I will flatten you before you can remove your oversized sunglasses, pick your “Pink” shorts out of your ass crack, and flail your Coach bag in defense.
The people who sit in the fire lane waiting on others to come out of the Sprint store: There’s a reason it’s called a fire lane. Mainly, because I hope you catch on fire for sitting in it.
The lady with the soccer ball, the basketball, and the tennis ball magnets on her minivan with her child’s name “Stevyn” on them: Stevyn just ran in front of me. Should this happen again, I will not be responsible for little Stevyn’s fate. This will be less painful in the long-run, given his name is Stevyn.
The oranged hooker-esque types walking out of Sun Tan City, happily texting on their cell phone and oblivious to all things, you know, not them: I will flatten you before you can remove your oversized sunglasses, pick your “Pink” shorts out of your ass crack, and flail your Coach bag in defense.
The people who sit in the fire lane waiting on others to come out of the Sprint store: There’s a reason it’s called a fire lane. Mainly, because I hope you catch on fire for sitting in it.
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