Dear FedEx Field Parking Attendant (or whatever nonsensical title they made up to make you feel good about yourself):
On October 17th, a group of friends and I headed down to FedEx Field before the Redskins/Colts game to partake in a little tailgating, as most attending football games do. We arrived fairly early, and proceeded to set up our little party in a similar fashion as those around us. Since the parking lot was practically empty at this point, we had more than enough space to set up our chairs and our glorious spread of liquor, meat, and various potato products. We ate, we drank, we laughed and cried, we were having an all around ball…until we heard your shrill Medusa voice reverberate in our very essence. I remember exactly what I was doing when I heard: “YA’LL NEED TA MOVE YO’ CARS NOW! IF WHEN I COME BACK, YA’LL AIN’T MOVED, I’M TAKING DOWN NUMBERS AN’ CALLING THE PUH’LEESE.”*
In that instant, you managed to ruin not only our fun, but killed the nice buzz I had going. Initially I turned my head skyward, as I expected a harpy to be fluttering above us, removing body length strips of flesh off of the poor soul in her talons. Getting over the shock at the lack of a mythical creature flying above us, I looked over my shoulder to see someone in a tight, navy blue get-up walking away, I’d probably be correct in assuming that the specimen was you. I almost felt bad for you, that suit looked like it was cutting off all blood and oxygen circulation to your brain, and, in an effort to preserve itself, shut down all “unnecessary” components much like it does when a victim is drowning. Those “unnecessary” components being: civility, proper English usage, and any remaining pieces of your soul. I have to ask, what was up with the iron-fisted approach to getting us to vacate the parking spot? I could understand your position if you had come around before and informed us in a very civil manner, and we ignored you. I could even understand if something from our section was thrown and hit you, but none of that happened. What happened was, you tried to abuse your power…which, let’s be honest, is not that great. You’re effectively allowed to inform the police about possible problems and that’s it, you’re a tattler!
Your power is no different than if we were all in the schoolyard playing in the sandbox near the bottom of the slide–those who are using the slide have no issues as, when they reach the bottom, they simply get up and move along, or, call out from the top of the slide that we should move. Everything is as peaceful as a sleepy drunk at church. However, you’re that one kid that’s upset because:
1) You hate slides. Having tried on two separate occasions to use one, the first attempt you got stuck halfway down, with the result of you crying as those of us who knew how to use a slide pointed and laughed. The other occasion resulted in 2nd degree burns to your backside, as you thought using it on a hot July day while wearing shorts was a great idea.
2) You weren’t amongst the group at the bottom of the slide laughing and playing, and these kids never invited you over, making you a more petty and spiteful version of Rudolph.
Basically, everyone, both the sliders, and those near the bottom of the slide, were all having fun…except for you. As such, you had to figure out a way to end all fun…you couldn’t go after the sliders, as, they were using the slide as it was intended…but you could certainly ruin fun time for those near the bottom. Having no power yourself, you had to resort to mooching off of someone else’s power you–tattled to a teacher. Eventually, your career of tattling earned you the coveted position of playground monitor, which gave you a yellow sash, a paper badge, and with it, the ability to recite the rules to other students as well as the possible consequences. Because most students enjoyed their recess, while they probably hated playground monitors, they would heed the warnings for fear of losing even a minute of playtime.
The harpy waits for the joyful descent of its next victim.
You knew this…you preyed upon this…you weren’t like other monitors, you could not be reasoned with, you became a cold-hearted, relentless machine powered by hate. You didn’t simply remind students that they shouldn’t stand in front of the swings, or throw rocks at each other, or pee in the bushes, oh no, you, my poor friend, screamed it at the top of your lungs, chastising your peers. Not only did this scream stab at their very souls, it allowed you to develop a method that both flexed your muscle, but tattled at the same time.
You may be happy to learn that those I was with attempted to talk me down from a drunken annoyance, stating you were probably doing that all day long, to even drunker tailgaters who were less than civil, and if that is the case–too damn bad. I could care less if you dealt with twenty groups of rude, disorderly people before getting to us, I could care even less if one them ripped the weave from your head and placed it in their cap in an attempt to create a modern day version of Davey Crockett. When you approach people in that way there’s going to be one of two results: they’ll ignore you, forcing you to call the police (whom think very little of you as a person), OR people will move, then dwell on the experience for years to come, over-exaggerating the story to the point where’s it absurd and nonsensical, degenerating into a rant as to why Hersey’s never should have discontinued the Bites line. (Seriously…those things were delicious; Reese’s bites chilled overnight were the perfect snack for a hot summer day. It had the perfect peanut butter to chocolate ratio…Mars tried with their Poppables line, but it just couldn’t hold a candle to the glorious snack of the Bites. VIVE LE BITES!)
Why have you forsaken me?!
Yours Truly,
Chris Eatman
Defenestration Columnist
Taker of Names and Candy Lover
*Translation: “All parties within the sound of my voice need to immediately vacate from any available parking spots. Should I return after ten minutes, and I see that you have not yet moved, I am taking down your information, and notifying the police….biznitches.
———
Chris hates anyone or anything which goes against how he feels a sentient being with more than three brain cells should act. He hopes to use his “Encyclopedia Douchebag…ica” as a springboard into becoming a full-fledged, tax exempt religion complete with holidays and greeting cards, mainly so he can steal from its coffers. His hopes are…not that high, knowing that those who needs his guidance most, are unable to read his words… what with the extra flesh from their sloped, ape-like foreheads blinding their eyes from the truth.
When not acting like a complete bastard (which is not very often), Chris offers his services as a freelancer for Beckett’s Massive Online Gamer. Yep, he’s a neeeeeerd.