I don’t know about you, but I am so sick of handicapped parking spaces. Every time I’m going to the mall or the movies, I see an empty space in prime position, approach it, and wham! A blue “handicapped” sign checks me mid-turn. I have to stomp on the brakes and turn the wheel hard to get going again, usually accompanied by the honk of angry drivers behind me and a corresponding middle finger response.
Sometimes, I’m so far in I have to put the car in reverse and back out, which is a whole ordeal: braking, looking over my shoulder, shifting gears. Is anyone coming? Why are they stopping? Would you go, lady? Oh, you’re letting me go? Fine. Oh, now you wanna’ go? I thought- Oh, never mind, just go, will you please? GO! And never darken my trunk space again! Then I back out, put the car in first gear, turn the steering wheel – again! – and drive away, all with some jerk’s 4 x 4 butt up against my bumper.
My animosity to these precious handicapped spots is based on more than just an aversion to backwards maneuvers though. It’s this monstrous appetite that handicapped people have for parking spaces in the first place. How many spots do they need? And why do they always have to be right by the entrance? This might seem a little insensitive, but couldn’t some of them use the exercise?
What if they don’t have a real handicap, but have a “glandular disorder” instead? That’s right, some defect in their thyroid is forcing them to shove potato chips down their throat. Aw, you say you can’t lose weight? Here’s an idea: try walking somewhere else besides that well-trodden path to the icebox. The carpet between your couch and the cookie jar is so worn it looks like it’s been trampled by a Navajo war party. Glandular disorder, bah! Believe me, your glands are begging you to put down that pint of Häagen-Dazs. On behalf of your entire endocrine system, let me say, “STOP!”
I don’t mind walking. Really, I don’t. I enjoy the five miles it takes to get from my parking space to the movie theater, especially when there are a dozen empty spaces right outside the entrance all waiting for handicapped vehicles.
You know what I’m going to do? One day, I’m going to take one of those spots. I too intend to develop a glandular disorder and eat my way to a handicapped parking tag. In fact, I intend to wear it around my blubbery neck while I gobble my daily apple pie à la mode – not a single slice, mind you, the whole darn pie. It’ll top off my “Party Pack” bucket of KFC nicely. I might even have tee shirts made up with the parking symbol on it.
I may get the same ugly looks that I now give, but it’ll be worth it. I’ll have the last laugh, along with a prime parking spot. Anyone want to go glandular with me?
Leave a Reply