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Die, You Cheap Parking Lot Tart

A guest editorial by Steve Johanian,
jilted motorist

I saw you walking out of the Franklin Park mall by the Marshall Field's store, and you looked terrific. I was especially attracted to you for your purposeful ztride as you crossed the lot to your nearby car.

"There," I thought to myself, "is a woman with purpose. A woman of substance. A woman who has a close-ass parking place in this busy motherfucking mall parking lot."

But, no. You walked to your Honda Accord, third spot in the first aisle, and opened your trunk, took out a bag, and walked back into the mall. Just like that, you betrayed my trust in you, a trust that was built upon you leaving the mall.

For that, you two-timing bitch, I hope you die.

You led me on with that "park-hither" look of yours, our eyes meeting in an unspoken gesture of cognition, and it was clear that you were promising me your spot. I could just glide right in, feeling the warmth of your engine on the pavement as we completed our short courtship:

Come, and trip it as ye go,
On the light fantastick toe.
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountaineer, sweet Jeep Liberty

But as quickly as our love commenced, you stabbed me in the back with your glistening stiletto of treachery. Then you looked at me with those scheming, evil white orbs, pretending that we never were an item. I felt so ashamed and guilt-ridden, and I cringed at the thought of anyone knowing that I had experienced this lot rape.

I must shower now, you filthy tramp.

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