082 Rock Star! HZR

Friday, 06 January 2012

We live on a street with no restrictions on parking. Unlike nearly every other street in the city, there are no annoying signs like “No Parking Tuesdays 2:30-6:15” or “20 Minute Parking on School Days” or “10 Minute Parking for Domestic Vehicles on Even-Numbered Days and 7.4 Minute Parking for Handicapped on All Days Except the Third Friday in May.” No sir, not on our street. Just go ahead and park along the edge of my property any time you want, day or night.

I think we have the only two parking spaces left in the city.

Anyway, I was rocking Isla to sleep tonight and, perched up on the second floor, I was looking out the window. A Subaru pulled up, slowed down, and then – despite there being twice the needed space – the driver decided to parallel park. She did a rather lousy job, too (was at least a foot from the curb).

After parking, four people exited the car: the woman driver, a man in the passenger side, and another man and woman in the backseat. The man in the front passenger seat got out, took a swig of some Rock Star beverage he was drinking, and then tossed the can right onto my lawn.

What a weasel-necked asswipe!

I mean, it’s too bad there weren’t any cup-holders in the car, or even a floor in the car where he could have tossed his can. And it’s too bad that loser couldn’t be bothered to carry that heavy, heavy can the three or blocks to his destination, or even just drop it in one of the many recycle bins scattered between here and the end of the block.

See? Here are three recycle bins between my home and the end of the block. (And that doesn’t even count the other side of the street.)

A few minutes later, I walked outside and picked up the can – it was still about 1/3 full. So that Neanderthal seemed to think it was okay if his concoction of chemicals just spilled out onto my lawn and killed my grass. I was going to bring the can inside, but then I figured I’d give the dick-brain one more chance. I gently set the can on the car’s roof, near the passenger door, hoping that when the sub-adequate knuckle-dragger returned to the car, he would think, “Whoa, there’s my Rock Star drink. I must’ve foolishly tossed it aside earlier. That was careless and insensitive of me. I guess I’ll bring it with me into the car now and dispose of it properly now that some benevolent soul has afforded me a second chance.”

The can, sitting on the car.

My wife tells me I let him off easily. She says I should have left a note. Man, she can be so heartless sometimes.

Saturday, 07 January 2012

When I went outside this morning, guess what I found sitting on the side of the road, near the curb?

If you guessed anything besides the above-mentioned can, then you’re too dumb to keep reading.

What kind of sad excuse for a homo sapien is this? If I went out somewhere with my friends, and I just threw some litter on the ground, they’d all look at me like I was some sort of smarmy ignoramus. I would think that this salamander brain would have been especially wary of impressing his friends, since they were all riding in an Impreza.

Yeah, that’s the kind of car it was. An Impreza. How pretentious is that? I, on the other hand, drive a Cavalier – a car name that is so self-effacing, you can’t help feel sorry for it.

Here’s the “Impreza’s” license plate, by the way:

…so please contact the owner if you happened to know who they are. I have a mostly-empty can of Rock Star they can come pick up.

I’m not sure if this fuckwit thought he was impressing his friends by carelessly tossing garbage onto the grass, but I think his friends should consider hanging out with less self-centered troglodytes.