I TAKE IT BACK: Volume I
Meter Maid Edition
I've been thinking a lot about what I said to you this morning after you gave me that parking ticket and I just want to say, I have no way of proving that your mother was in fact a female dog. Seriously.
And in my mind, I've been picturing you over-and-over again and I see no distinctive proof that you come from any canine ancestry.
None.
Yes, I thought that maybe you had those very distinctive Basset Fauve de Bretagne eyes but I've since reconsidered. Despite the obvious sadness in your right eye, I think the left one had too much life. There was an alertness like that of the Caucasian Ovcharka. Could you be the result of mixed breed dog love?
No, no. I know. That's inappropriate.
You're just doing your job. And me...? Well, I'm just parking like, ten minutes before your street sign allows. But what's ten minutes between people who barely know each other, may even possibly resent one another, or perhaps see each other as the ultimate representation of their arch enemy--the defiant ticket recepient?
Oh, and turns out ten minutes is worth about eighty-four dollars.
And that comment about your backside and a pole. I also have no way of proving that, either. Your practical-yet-drab grey-blue trousers make it impossible for me to effectively see what is in your posterior.
Of course, I've never tried walking with a pole in my rectum and I can imagine it would be awful and therefore make the experience of walking up and down the block writing tickets a painful one. But I was thinking, though, that maybe it could be a small pole. Technically, not even a pole. Like perhaps one of those extended pointers that college professors use when they're too lazy to walk to the chalkboard. They're small enough to not notice when you're swaggering smugly to an unknowing, innocent car. A discreet pole-like object that could still inspire an attitudinal change without onlookers noticing something protruding from the rear.
That's not very likely either. I know.
And do I even need to bring up that time I suggested a creative new activity for you and the ticket you put on my windshield? I mean, if you'd like to go ahead with my suggestion, that's totally okay. If you're into that sort of thing, I am completely respectful of that. This is New York City. Enjoy. Go wild. You don't even need to credit me with the idea. What you do with my ticket in your spare time is no business of mine.
Finally, when you were walking away, I may have said something about self-reproducing. This I know is impossible. Not from personal experience, of course.
We're cool, right?
Meter Maid Edition
I've been thinking a lot about what I said to you this morning after you gave me that parking ticket and I just want to say, I have no way of proving that your mother was in fact a female dog. Seriously.
And in my mind, I've been picturing you over-and-over again and I see no distinctive proof that you come from any canine ancestry.
None.
Yes, I thought that maybe you had those very distinctive Basset Fauve de Bretagne eyes but I've since reconsidered. Despite the obvious sadness in your right eye, I think the left one had too much life. There was an alertness like that of the Caucasian Ovcharka. Could you be the result of mixed breed dog love?
No, no. I know. That's inappropriate.
You're just doing your job. And me...? Well, I'm just parking like, ten minutes before your street sign allows. But what's ten minutes between people who barely know each other, may even possibly resent one another, or perhaps see each other as the ultimate representation of their arch enemy--the defiant ticket recepient?
Oh, and turns out ten minutes is worth about eighty-four dollars.
And that comment about your backside and a pole. I also have no way of proving that, either. Your practical-yet-drab grey-blue trousers make it impossible for me to effectively see what is in your posterior.
Of course, I've never tried walking with a pole in my rectum and I can imagine it would be awful and therefore make the experience of walking up and down the block writing tickets a painful one. But I was thinking, though, that maybe it could be a small pole. Technically, not even a pole. Like perhaps one of those extended pointers that college professors use when they're too lazy to walk to the chalkboard. They're small enough to not notice when you're swaggering smugly to an unknowing, innocent car. A discreet pole-like object that could still inspire an attitudinal change without onlookers noticing something protruding from the rear.
That's not very likely either. I know.
And do I even need to bring up that time I suggested a creative new activity for you and the ticket you put on my windshield? I mean, if you'd like to go ahead with my suggestion, that's totally okay. If you're into that sort of thing, I am completely respectful of that. This is New York City. Enjoy. Go wild. You don't even need to credit me with the idea. What you do with my ticket in your spare time is no business of mine.
Finally, when you were walking away, I may have said something about self-reproducing. This I know is impossible. Not from personal experience, of course.
We're cool, right?
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home