Hey, Where’s My Special Designated Parking Place?

 

 

Meet Brandy, a new addition to the family.

 

Why should expectant mothers get all the perks?  I’m talking about designated parking places.

I say — let them walk to their cars just like the rest of us.  What makes them so special?

Instead, let’s make designated parking spaces for the truly needy.

I’m talking about people who have had too much to drink.  Think about it.  Have you ever been plastered to the sky and then you can’t find your car?  Gee, I hate it when that happens.  Other than forgetting where you parked, the worst thing is to have to walk a mile to find it.  I’ll bet that happens to a lot more people than the “expectant mother” thing.  So, who’s really the neediest?

What’s worse is when you’ve got lots of stuff to carry and all the spaces in front are designated for those with special needs.  Well, bullshit!  I have special needs, too.  Take for instance, when I’m exiting a liquor store.

Let’s do some quick math on this, shall we?  How much does a typical baby weigh?  Maybe 20 or 30 pounds?  Hell, I don’t know.  I won’t even touch one of those filthy things.  But I’m sure they scale much less than a full case of wine.  In other words, an infant weighs considerably less than a case of Chateauneuf du Pape.

So, let me get this straight.

The baby is about 25 pounds and just lays there.  It might sleep if you’re lucky.  Think of a cat.  Only instead of using the litter box, it just goes.  Whenever it wants.  Talk about a total lack of consideration.  A baby isn’t cute.  It’s a slobbering shitting machine with an IQ of a gerbil.  I say,  make it start walking.

Please tell me why mothers and babies get special privileges in parking lots over the rest of us?  What makes them so deserving?

The way I look at it is this.  There’s plenty of expectant mothers in the modern world.  Nothing is unique about them all.  There are more babies than we can feed and clothe and care for in this world of constantly diminishing resources.  And the truth is — I truly feel for them.  I really do.  But after I’ve had 15 drinks at the local bar why should I have to stumble to my vehicle over an extra 20 rows of cars while the frisky mother in her 20’s gets to park right on the front row?

How about some equal rights?  My case of wine is far more of a burden to bear than pushing an infant in a stroller.  That’s easy.  What I do wears me out both mentally and physically.

Yesterday, in a casino parking lot, I saw a sign which designed the space for “Mothers to Be and Parents with Infants.”  Never mind that this was at a casino, which seems rather bizarre.

Fine.

Two can play that game.

Hey, I can be a “parent with an infant,” too.

I figure buying a doll and being a “pretend parent” is worth the $15 investment.  What do you think?   Who’s gonna’ know the difference?

Here’s my infant.  Now, I can park on the front row, too.

I wonder — what I should name her?

I got it!

Brandy!  Ladies and gentlemen — meet my new baby, “Brandy.”