a parking ticket?



Dear parking enforcement officer…

I hope writing me a ticket helped you forget how shriveled and tiny your testicles are.   Not that you need them anyway, because no woman could ever love a shriveled testicled cretin who’s only ability to make money is to regulate which side of the street someone parked their car on.  Even people with debilitating mental retardation can generate cash by selling rice krispi treats at a bake sale…not you though, your ability to write a license plate down on a piece of paper is the total sum of your contribution to society.  I suspect while you are masturbating at the thought of a time long past when your mother actually admitted to having given birth to you, the sperm next in line for ejaculation commit suicide rather than be alive for the moment they are exposed as being your genetic material.

You would be better off telling people you inspect the feces of starving refugees to make sure they are actually impoverished and not trying to get a free meal from the red cross, then telling them what you actually do for a pay check.  

I can only hope one day you give yourself a paper-cut with one of those tickets…directly on your palm, because the indention from that paper cute would be larger than your penis and stymie your ability to masturbate as you would not be able to squeeze your palm tight enough to give any stimulation to it…thus leaving you without even that lone activity to remind yourself you are alive.  I hope the single swaying light bulb in your dank lonely apartment shines brightly tonight on the shrieking nothingness that is your life.

One day, perhaps flush with confidence after keeping the city safe from cars parked on the wrong side of the street, you will wander into wal-mart looking for companionship.  You are noticed by a train wreck of humanity that can only be described as Quasimodo after falling into the “free” box of clothing at a rummage sale…after a tragic accident in a chemical factory. She will turn her head, neck muscles struggling against the several layers of chin…like a giant flesh glacier it will slowly turn in your direction…she will wink at you…eyelid stretching over a big bird eye.  A tiny tingling in your pants alerts you that the three blood cells it takes create an erection in your tiny tiny tiny dork have made the journey, you once again and perhaps for the last time have a functioning sexual organ. Then…she makes small talk while running her sausagy fingers across her shower cap.  All the signals are there that you, despite your nigh snail like complexion and complete lack of personality, have found someone close to human to have intercourse with. However during the brief conversation you mention what you do for a living and she, despite clearly having no dignity what so ever, takes her own life after realizing she almost sunk so low as to sleep with a parking enforcement officer.

The whole world hates you, and when you finally die, the neighborhood will petition that a toxic waste dump be created in place of your grave site so as not to risk your wretched corpse contaminating the soil with decomposing  uselessness.


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